


I Dreamt That I Grew Wings

by Indybaggins



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beginnings, Blow Jobs, Consent, Crimes & Criminals, Friendship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Prison, Prison Sex, Protectiveness, Sharing a Room, Talking, Threesome, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-08 21:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: Arthur accidentally killed a man, Douglas did a spot of smuggling, and Martin only ever wanted to fly. Of course, sharing a prison cell is not all that different from being stuck on an aeroplane together... except that it kind of is.





	1. (Martin)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jie_jie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jie_jie/gifts).



> WARNINGS: A scene involving off-screen non-con. Setting-related verbal/physical/sexual harassment and background violence throughout.
> 
> Disclaimer: I know very little about the UK penitentiary system or prisons in general, so I’m sure that the details of prison life in this story will be highly inaccurate. 
> 
> Written for Jie_Jie, happy birthday!
> 
> Beta and Brit-picking was by Jay_eagle, thank you so much :)
> 
> [Cover art](http://indybaggins.tumblr.com/image/161425331403) on Tumblr. 
> 
> This story is fully written, and I will update with a new chapter every 4 days.

 

 

Martin is wearing an orange jumpsuit. He’s carrying a pile of sheets and a folded blanket, a pillow, and a toothbrush. He’s walking down a long, grey corridor, through doors that have to be opened for him and lock again after him. His footsteps echo. 

He’s in handcuffs. 

A prison guard, Mrs. Knapp-Shappey, is next to him. She’s talking about procedures and his rights, but Martin barely hears her. They pass by series after series of half-opened cell doors and they all have men inside. Some are glaring at them. 

One licks his lips at him, and Martin nearly trips over his feet. 

The guard asks, “Hardened criminal, are you?” 

“No, I’m… not.” Martin can barely say it. Plus, how does one speak to a prison guard? She’s an older woman, around sixty maybe and Martin needs to be polite, he’s aware of that, but he’s also so nervous that he can barely breathe. 

She sighs. “Clearly.” 

Martin wants to tell her that it’s all been some enormous mistake. That he doesn’t belong here. That he’s not a bad person at all, and that he’ll never do it again if she would just please, _please_ let him go. But she isn’t talking anymore, and he doesn’t dare to say anything else. 

After a couple more steps, she stops in front of a door. 

His cell.

Mrs. Knapp-Shappey pushes the door open to reveal a small cell with a bunk bed. There are two men already inside, and she says to them, “Now, before you say anything...”

“Oh, _Mum_ , no!”

“Carolyn, we don’t have space. It’s against the rules, and you know it.” 

“Yes, I’m well aware. But -” Mrs. Knapp-Shappey takes Martin’s arm and pulls him inside. “Here, look at him! What else am I supposed to do with him?”

Martin can see a young man sitting on the top bunk bed, dangling his legs, and an older one on the bottom bunk. Both are in orange jumpsuits just like him. They look him over. 

“ _Yes..._ ” The bottom one sighs. “I see what you mean.”

The top one wavers. “Douglas, we could, couldn’t we? Just for a bit?” 

“Fine. We’ll keep him for now, but you know what they say, I give you something, you...” 

“Yes, yes, I know.” Mrs. Knapp-Shappey uncuffs Martin brusquely, then says to him, “There, good luck. Or as much as you’ll need with these oafs.” 

“Oh, and Mum...”

“Yes, a Calippo on Saturday, I remember. Good night, dear.” She closes the door behind her. 

It locks with a heavy-sounding click. 

Martin looks at the door, and then slowly turns around. He is standing here, holding his pile of sheets and a blanket and a toothbrush, looking at two prisoners - his bunkmates. Martin has read about this, about how to appear cool in prison. Only he’s not cool. He’s not even a little bit cool. And they are going to find out and he is going to _die_. 

The man on the top bed jumps down. Martin takes a fast step back towards the wall. Is he getting attacked already?! 

But the man extends his hand. “Hullo, I’m Arthur Shappey.”

“Um. Um!” Right. Martin shifts his pile of things in his arms and takes the man’s - Arthur’s - hand. 

Martin shakes it, and that’s nice, right? That’s good. Except, what if it is drugs that Arthur is slipping him already? Or maybe it’s a way to get close to him so he can shank him, or... Martin lets go abruptly. 

He eyes him - Arthur. ‘Shappey’, maybe - should they use last names? 

“And you are?” The man on the bottom bed prompts, sounding a bit bored. 

Martin stammers, “Ma... Martin. Crieff. Martin Crieff.” 

“Hm. Douglas Richardson, pleasure.” Douglas doesn’t reach out his hand, so Martin doesn’t take it. He’s aware that he shouldn’t touch anyone here. Ever. 

Douglas looks him over. “So, first time in the joint, I take it?” 

It’s probably really, really obvious, so Martin admits, “Yes.” 

“They’ll bring you a mattress for tonight.” 

Martin nods. He didn’t even think about where he was going to sleep. So he’ll be on the floor? He did read an article about overcrowding in prisons. Martin wants to tell them that, that overcrowding is a real problem, but then he stops himself. These people won’t care about what he’s read, will they? 

Martin is gripping his blanket so hard that his fingers are turning white. 

Simon told him, before dropping him off at the prison gates just now, “Just let them do whatever they want, Martin. Don’t fight, otherwise they’ll kill you.” 

Arthur is looking at him curiously. “Are you all right?” 

Martin doesn’t know what to say. Is this a test? Is everything he’s asked a test now? 

“Wait, let me guess.” Douglas says it lazily. “Speeding, or careless driving. You ran someone over with your car.”

Oh, they’re trying to figure out what he... Martin shakes his head. “No.” He’s an excellent driver. He’s always really careful in traffic. 

“Stalking? Some sort of love obsession with your favourite singer got out of hand? You killed her so she could never love another the way she loved you?” 

What? “No!” He’d never kill someone! “I, um... well…” 

There’s a mechanical hiss at the door and it opens again. There’s someone else in a guard’s uniform. “Mattress delivery?” 

“Yes, for us!” Arthur accepts it. Martin has to step out of the way, only that means he bumps the back of his legs into the toilet. He moves away fast, but there’s nowhere else to stand, except right by Douglas’ bed which Martin doesn’t want to do either, so he stands with his back pressed to the sink. 

Arthur drops the mattress on the floor. It only just fits on the rectangle of floor between the toilet and sink, the door, and the bunk bed. Arthur pushes it to the wall. And then looks at him. 

Martin lowers his packet of blanket and sheets onto the mattress. Only, he’s trying to appear confident, so he throws the sheet open... and his toothbrush rolls onto the floor and disappears under the bunk bed.

Douglas watches it roll away, but he doesn’t get up to take it. Instead he asks, “How long are you in for?” 

Martin looks at the toothbrush. He doesn’t know if he should get it. Would that be like stepping onto Douglas’ territory? Will he be punished for it? Martin starts spreading his sheet over the mattress instead, it feels safer. And then remembers the question. “Oh, ah, six months.” 

“You’ll be out in three on good behaviour.” Douglas sounds sure about that. “That’s _nothing_.” 

“Really?” Martin can’t quite keep the note of hope from his voice. 

“Yes, really.” Arthur agrees. 

Douglas nods. “Providing you don’t kill or maim anybody in here - definitely.”

It makes Martin feel better, just a little. His lawyer did say that, too. But then lawyers say things. If people here think that too then maybe it’ll really be true, and that sounds... Well, it’s still a long time, three months. But it’s better than half a year. 

It gives Martin enough confidence to get on his knees and quickly crawl after his toothbrush. He has to lower his head and get half under Douglas’ bed. Martin grabs it, fast, and then bangs his head against the bed frame coming back up. 

Douglas looks at him, but he doesn’t say anything.

Arthur is kneeling by the mattress now. Martin thinks that maybe he should tell Arthur not to touch his bed. Only it’s their cell, technically, and their floor, so Martin doesn’t dare to. He holds on to his toothbrush and hesitates. Arthur isn’t doing anything wrong, really, he’s straightening the blanket. And tucking in the corners. It’s odd. 

It’s silent, for a moment, while Arthur uses his hands to stroke the sheets to lie perfectly even. Martin tries not to stare, but why is Arthur doing that for him? 

“Done!” Arthur says it proudly. “I wish we had chocolates.” 

Is that it? Is Martin supposed to pay him with something for making his bed? Martin doesn’t have chocolates. Or money, he realises, he has nothing at all to pay Arthur with. Except… favours. So is that, is that what…? Martin can feel the panic rise again. 

Arthur looks up and smiles wistfully at him. “You know, those little ones? That they put on pillows? Or mints. Mints would work, too.” He frowns. “I could put some gum on your pillow?” 

“Arthur, I think that you are making the crucial error of mistaking _prison_ for a four star hotel.” 

Arthur looks a bit crestfallen at that. 

Martin says, quickly, “I don’t need a mint. Or chocolates.” He adds, “Thank you?” 

“Oh, it’s no problem, I love helping!” 

“He _really_ does.” Douglas says it darkly. 

Martin sits down on his freshly-made bed, mostly because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Arthur is still right there, looking at him. Smiling widely. 

Douglas says, “In case you were wondering, Arthur here is our _natural born killer_.”

Arthur is _a murderer?_ Martin feels a stab of cold fear. Arthur is right there. So close Martin could touch him if he reached out his arm. He’s never been this close to someone who kills other people. 

“He wasn’t a very nice man, though,” Arthur says philosophically. “Really shout-y. Rude.”

Douglas smiles. “Hmm, how very _Hannibal Lecter_ of you.” 

“No, he was, Douglas, you should have met him!” 

“...and now, thanks to you, I never will. You’ve ridded the world of a scourge, I’m sure.” 

Martin wonders whether he’s done anything that could be considered rude so far. At all. By anyone. Should he have taken off his shoes? Asked permission to sit down? Martin glances at the mattress. Arthur made the bed, and Martin’s currently wrinkling the blanket by sitting on it.

And now Arthur is looking at him. Martin tries not to look scared, but he knows he’s failing. 

Arthur says, “It was an accident! I didn’t _mean_ to kill him.” He seems to want to make sure that Martin gets that. 

Martin, not sure what else to do, nods. “Oh.” 

And then he thinks about it. Accidents do happen. Even really bad ones, like Douglas just said - people hit people with their cars and such. It’s horrible, but... Arthur is still looking at him, so Martin tries for a little smile. If Arthur didn’t mean to kill someone, if it was all some terrible accident, then maybe that’s not too bad? 

“So your hand just slipped, did it?” Douglas asks as if he already knows the answer. 

“No, you have to remove the pin and then push to use a fire extinguisher, I learned that in school. From a fireman.” 

“You...” Martin swallows. “You killed someone with a fire extinguisher?” 

Douglas grins. “He did, famously and also _hilariously_.” 

“By accident!” Arthur adds. “He was on fire. Or well, his cigarette was, so I was trying to...” 

“...put him out?” 

“Yes! Or well, no, I was trying to scare him, but I didn’t know it would asphyxiate him! And then he had a heart attack, too. He was old.” Arthur pauses. “I really shouldn’t have.” 

Douglas snorts. 

Martin leans back onto the cold wall and feels it press hard into his shoulder blades. 

He knew that he’d be in here with criminals. He really did know that, but somehow he’d thought that they would have all these really dark and traumatic stories that no one ever talked about. That it would be some old man looking him in the eyes and saying, ‘You don’t want to know the things I did...’

Martin hadn’t expected them to openly discuss murder within ten minutes of his arrival. 

There’s the sound of the door opening again, and the guard from before just lets it open wide. There are other people in the hallway, now. 

“Dinner!” Arthur says happily and jumps up. 

Martin gets up, too, feeling as if he’s in some sort of dream. His knees are trembling. Now they’re all standing up it’s really obvious that Martin is a lot smaller than both Arthur and Douglas. And there’s hardly any space between his mattress and their bunk bed. They could hurt him. Easily.

Arthur walks out, and Douglas is right behind him, so Martin follows them. The hallway is filled with people in orange jumpsuits, and they’re all talking and shouting. It’s a sea of terrible people. _Killers._ Martin stays close to Arthur’s back because he feels too afraid to look at anyone. It’s reminding him of school, this. Being new. Crossing the playground, afraid to be noticed and attacked. Only then, it was a bit of laughing and people making fun of him. Martin’s never been in a real fight. He’s never been anywhere like this. 

Then Arthur says to him, “I have to go to work. See you in a bit, Martin!” 

He disappears, and now Martin’s just with Douglas, and Martin realises that he really did like Arthur so far despite the murder thing, because Douglas is a lot more intimidating somehow. 

They make it to the cafeteria without talking. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but Martin can feel the gazes of the people trailing all over him like pinpricks. 

Douglas takes two trays, hands one to Martin, and then they queue. Douglas holds out his tray by the counter, gets a slop of something brown thrown onto it by an elderly man, and says with a formal smile, “Thank you Mr. B.”

The man hums, and then squints at Martin. “And who have we here?”

Douglas glances at him and says, “New arrival. Martin.” 

“Hmm, gingery fellow, isn’t he?”

Martin says, “Hello… sir.” And he gets a splotch of food from ‘Mr. B’, so he thinks he did well. 

Especially when Douglas says, “As ever, your serving is magnificent, _sir_.” Which gets them a grudging smile, so yes, Martin thinks he did okay. 

And then Arthur is there, appearing behind the counter, wearing a hairnet and a white apron. “Hi!” He smiles. 

Martin smiles back, relieved to see him again. “Hello.” So that’s Arthur’s job then? He works in the kitchen?

“Bun?” Arthur asks. 

Martin doesn’t actually want one, he’s not even remotely hungry, but he thinks he should be nice to Arthur as much as he can. “Um… yes?”

Arthur places it on Martin’s tray carefully. 

Douglas leaves to sit down at the table nearest to the counter. Martin follows him, and then when Douglas doesn’t say no, Martin sits down next to him. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit here, or if they’re going to have to fight, or something. But Douglas just glances at him and starts eating, so Martin assumes it’s okay. 

Actually, it’s scary, but this is… better than Martin had expected his first hour in prison to be. Martin dares to say to Douglas, “That wasn’t too bad.” 

Douglas doesn’t smile. “Oh, yes, you see, we’re a gentleman prison.” 

“Really?” Martin looks around. They don’t _look_ like gentlemen, none of these men do - okay, maybe Douglas does, but no one else - they all look really rough, like the kind of men who would mug him and carry knives and crush beer cans onto their foreheads. But then they all have been pretty nice so far, so maybe he shouldn’t judge. Maybe it really will all be okay? 

“ _No_.” Douglas is looking at something. He says, urgently, “Give me your food.” 

“What?” Martin has heard of this, that people will try to take his food, but he can’t let them because if he lets them once then they’ll do it again. He holds on to his tray. “No, it’s mine.”

“And Arthur will get you more. Give me your tray _now_.” Douglas pulls it out of his hands. 

Martin doesn’t fight him. He just lets him, and he feels bad about that, he should have argued, why didn’t he argue? Now Douglas will think that he can steal his food all the time! And then Martin notices that there’s a whole group of men coming.

One of them calls out, “Well, what do we have here? Douglas, got yourself a pet?” 

Martin can feel his breath hitch in his chest. Oh no. 

Douglas leans back into his seat. He smiles, but it seems a wrong sort of smile, it’s all slithery. “Ah, more like a timeshare with Arthur, I suppose. He’s bunking with the two of us.” Douglas raises his eyebrows. “A little gift from Mummy, if you will.” That gets him some laughs from the men.

Douglas starts eating Martin’s food. Demonstratively. 

“I quite like him.” One of the men up front, huge, with terrible teeth and a tattoo of a chain fence, says, ‘’Very... _fresh_.” 

Martin can feel himself flush.

“And all ours, Jeremy.” Douglas says it almost lazily around a mouthful of food. 

Martin has to try very hard not to panic. Is he Douglas’ now? Is that what happened? 

Arthur suddenly yells from behind the counter, “Yes, Martin’s mine, too!” He looks around, seemingly trying to figure out what to say. Then he adds, looking doubtful, “My _girl!_ ” 

That gets some laughs. And, worse, considering looks. Martin can feel his cheeks heat up even more. He’s sure he’s bright red now, but he’s too afraid to argue. They’re all looking at him as if they’re thinking of really terrible things to do to him. As if they’ll hurt him, if they can. 

And then, after a long, tense moment, one of the men takes a step back as if he’s made a decision of sorts, and says, “Well, enjoy, Richardson.”

Douglas’ smile is all teeth. “Oh, we _will_.” 

They walk away. Douglas shifts a little and sits more naturally, but Martin barely notices. He feels as if he’s about to throw up. 

“Breathe.” Douglas says it quietly.

It doesn’t help. Martin can barely look at him. If he belongs to Douglas and Arthur now, will be have to _do_ things? Whatever they ask him to? Is he going to have to pretend to be a girl? He did know this, Martin tells himself - he did know that this would happen in prison. He just didn’t… _know_ , until this moment, the cold fear of it. 

Douglas is still eating Martin’s food, but Martin doesn’t care. The noise of the mess hall is intense. There are a hundred people all crammed together in a room, and it’s overwhelming. Martin wants to curl up into a little ball and not be here ever again. He wants everything to go back to the way it was before, when he wasn’t here. 

Douglas says, lowly, “We’ll be out of here soon.” 

But Martin isn’t listening. He sits there, for long minutes, his hands trembling, his vision greying out. 

When Douglas finishes eating, he makes a show out of dabbing his mouth with a paper napkin, and then hides about half the food under it to make it look as if he ate it all. When Douglas gets up, Martin does, too. 

He doesn’t know what else to do. 

Douglas bursts both the trays and on the way winks at some people, laughs, and jokes a bit, but Martin can barely hear it over the rush in his ears. 

He can’t do this. 

He can’t be in prison. He’s not like these people, all he can see is their grins and teeth and the muscles and tattoos and Martin’s nothing like them, he can’t, he’s...

As they’re walking away, suddenly Arthur is there again, too. He whispers, “Do you want strudel or cheesecake?”

Martin looks up at him, but it’s as if he’s listening from somewhere very far away. Is it code for something? Should he know what that means? Is it drugs? 

After a long moment, Douglas says, “Nobody likes strudel, get cheesecake.”

“Okay!” Arthur leaves. 

Martin just follows Douglas. Step after step, back to their cell. Martin can feel himself breaking already. He’ll do it, if he needs to. Do... that. Maybe if he lies very still, it’ll be over quickly. Maybe it won’t hurt as much as they say. 

They make it to the cell, and Douglas sits down on his bed. He doesn’t say anything, so Martin crawls onto his own mattress. He leans his back against the cold, hard wall, and wraps his arms around his knees. 

“As entertaining as it is to watch, you can stop panicking now.” 

Martin forces himself to look at Douglas. He has to swallow back some acid in his throat to do that, but he does it. “Okay.” His voice sounds small. Martin can imagine a whole heap of things that Douglas might want to do to him, but Douglas is right, panicking won’t help. There’s no escape. They’ll lock the door, later. There’s nothing else to do but give in. 

Douglas sighs. “Stop looking like you’re about to be attacked – frankly, it’s mildly insulting. Neither Arthur nor myself are going to hurt you.”

Martin breathes out. Does Douglas mean to say that… will his hand, maybe, be enough? Or his mouth? Martin doesn’t want to do that either, but it won’t hurt, at least. Maybe they’ll be nice about it. Maybe that’s what Douglas wants, someone to be more like a girlfriend? Maybe that’s better than the other thing. 

Martin asks, shakily, “What, what do you want me to do?” 

Douglas rolls his eyes. “ _Nothing._ Believe it or not, I don’t get my kicks out of raping people.” 

Martin feels a pinch of relief. Really? 

“ _They_ , however...” - Douglas nods in the direction of the mess hall - “do, so a little drama is necessary.” 

“Oh.”

“So relax. You’re fine.” Douglas takes his book again. 

Martin’s not completely sure he believes Douglas, but he doesn’t seem like he would have any reason to be lying. Douglas is just reading now. Martin doesn’t mind, his head feels like it’s swarmed with images and words, like it’s thrumming with everything he has just seen and heard. He’s still trembling. 

Martin flinches every time someone walks by the door. But there’s no one that comes in. 

Until about an hour later, when Arthur comes back. 

He’s holding a plate with cake on it, and a plastic cup, and he’s already talking, “...I wasn’t sure about how you liked your tea so I made it with milk and sugar because that’s what I like - four sugars. I’m sorry that Douglas had to eat your food, it’s just that we have to.” Arthur looks guilty. “And it’s not that I really think that you look like a girl, I mean, you don’t, you’re a man - or a boy, or a, well, not a girl anyway - it’s, you _are_ really pretty, but...”

“Arthur.” Douglas stops him. 

Arthur swallows. “Here.” He holds out the tea and cake. 

Martin stares at it. And then, feeling again as if there is nothing else he can do, he accepts both. Arthur immediately seems happier. Martin slowly takes a sip of the tea. 

It’s _awful_. 

Arthur is looking at him eagerly though, so Martin takes another sip and says, “Thank you.” 

And then - Martin has been thinking this, he should make conversation, try to make friends - he asks, “Is the prison guard... I mean, probably not, but I thought I heard, is she… your mum?” 

“Yes, she is.” Arthur smiles. “It’s kind of obvious, really. Since I call her Mum and all.” 

Martin says, “I just didn’t think that was even allowed, a relative in a position of power like that?” And then he wants to kick himself, because he shouldn’t be critical! He can’t say anything bad about anyone!

Arthur shrugs. “Oh, Mum bent the rules a bit.”

“More than _a bit_.” Douglas sounds pleased about that. 

Martin raises the cheesecake to his mouth. He’s not even sure that he can eat right now, but he knows that he should be polite because Arthur is looking at him expectantly, so he says, “Hmm!” before he’s even tasted it. 

It does taste all right, Martin thinks. 

And then there’s some sort of loud klaxon or siren just ripping through the air. Martin startles and nearly upends his plate. His heart races again. 

Douglas gets up. Martin doesn’t know what to do, until Douglas says, “Count, get up.”

Martin does, awkwardly because he’s still holding his plastic cup of tea and the plate. A guard opens the door and pokes his head in. “Night, boys.” 

“Goodnight, Karl!” Arthur bounces on the balls of his feet. 

Douglas grumbles, loud enough to be heard, “... _do_ let the bed bugs bite...” 

Karl closes the door and locks it. 

“Martin, don’t be scared but the lights will go out in-” As Arthur is speaking, the light suddenly flicks off and it’s pitch black. Martin can see the shapes of the room still moving before his eyes like haloes. 

“We’re supposed to go to sleep now,” Arthur adds, unnecessarily. 

“But it’s...” Not late at all. Maybe around eight? 

“We’re aware.” Douglas says it with a deeply grieved tone. He starts rummaging for something. 

Martin sits back down onto his mattress. 

He eats the cake, even though his stomach still feels all twisted up. 

As Martin’s eyes get used to the dark, he can see the square of the door outlined. There is a light on in the corridor. It’s not that dark, actually, Martin can see the outline of the bunk bed, too. And then Douglas puts something on his head and turns it on, lighting the room again. It’s one of those little forehead lights for reading in bed.

Arthur steps to the sink, turns on the water, and starts brushing his teeth. 

Martin puts the plate and cup aside when it’s empty. 

He takes off his shoes, and then doubts where to put them. Martin keeps them close by the mattress. He doesn’t really have anywhere else, and he doesn’t want them to be in the way. He opens the covers and slides his legs in, careful not to mess up Arthur’s work too much. It’s cold, hard and uncomfortable. The mattress isn’t even a real mattress. It’s plastic. It squeaks when he moves. 

Martin does actually feel a little better for having eaten. He looks at Douglas. He hasn’t been that bad, really. So Martin asks, quickly, before he loses his nerve, “So, um, if you want to say, but, um, why are you here...?”

“Douglas is a smuggler!” Arthur sounds muffled by his toothbrush in his mouth. He leans down and spits into the sink. 

Martin glances back at Douglas. Does that mean drugs? Or more like human trafficking? 

“Hm, yes...” Douglas sounds almost bored, but then as he speaks on it’s like he was waiting for a chance to tell him. “I was arrested flying an Air England flight with two hundred and fifteen genuine jade vases in the cabin, twelve silk kimonos, and a pound of coca tea. Mind you, there might have been a smidgen of uncut heroine hidden in every vase and in the lining of the kimonos, but really, how was I supposed to know?” 

Martin immediately sits up. “You flew for _Air England?!_ ” 

Douglas looks at him oddly. “Not the most important part of that gripping tale, but yes, I am an airline captain. Or I was, I suppose.” 

“Oh!” Martin’s sure that that sounds much too reverent but he can’t help it. Oh, that’s amazing! That’s wonderful! Martin wants to ask Douglas where he’s been, which types of aircraft he’s flown, everything! But he bites his tongue. He shouldn’t. Martin knows that he’s prone to babbling and who wants a babbling cell mate? He needs to be _accommodating_ , and, and _unobtrusive_. 

Douglas’ forehead light shines into Martin’s eyes as he looks at him. “Enthusiast, are you?” 

“Yes, a little. I mean, more than, more than a little actually. I’ve always wanted to fly, and I’ve been trying...” _for twelve years_ , “for a long time to become a pilot. That’s why...” Martin sucks in a breath. “I’m here. That’s why I’m… in prison.” 

And he can feel it hit him all over again. 

He’s _in prison_. He’s never going to be a pilot. He’ll be lucky if he gets a job at all, after this. His life is ruined. Dad was right, he should have stopped flying. He never should have kept on trying because he won’t _ever_ fly now. Martin swallows against the sudden press of tears. 

Douglas, after a long moment, turns back to his book. 

Arthur turns off the water, dabs his face with a towel, then walks past him and hands him something. “Here.” 

It’s a packet of tissues. 

“It’s all right.” Arthur climbs onto the top bunk. “Everyone cries on their first night.” 

“Hm.” Douglas agrees. “Something to do with it suddenly sinking in, and the doom and gloom of this place. Don’t worry, it grows on you. Or it kills you, I suppose.” He flips a page. “Either way, you’ll get over it.” 

Martin’s breathing in gulps of air. Are they making fun of him? Is that it? Because men don’t cry, right, so if he was a real man he wouldn’t cry?

“Oh, and if you feel a rat walk over you, don’t kick it?” Arthur sounds hopeful. 

“Arthur’s been trying to train them. He hasn’t succeeded, shockingly.” 

“They’re friendly, really. I’ve only gotten bitten twice! Well, bitten badly twice, the rest were just... well, little bites.” 

“Mere nibbles, would you say?” 

Martin is pretty sure that he is hyperventilating. There are _rats?_ He lies down and pulls the sheets up to his chin. The room has grey spots waving back and forth. 

“Well, good night!” Arthur turns in his bed and sighs deeply, as if he’s getting comfortable. 

Martin breathes around the spikes of fear in his chest. 

After a couple of minutes, Arthur starts snoring. 

Douglas reads for a while more, and the sound of his pages flipping over startle Martin every time. Eventually, even he turns his light off. The whole bunk bed creaks as Douglas turns to his side. 

Then, there are only the sounds from outside in the corridor. Footsteps. Voices, far away. Someone thumping on the wall, for a while. A long, low scream. 

Martin tries to listen for the rats, but he doesn’t know what rats sound like.

He feels cold. The sheet and blanket are thin, and his prison jumpsuit is stiff and scratchy. Martin’s throat feels as if it has a hand around it, squeezing. _Anything_ could happen here. People could hurt him. They probably will. And all for... a dream. 

Martin always wanted to be a pilot. It’s _all_ he ever wanted. He tried and tried and worked and now he’s thirty years old and he’s done nothing but a series of manual jobs, always saving for more flight hours and more lessons. And all he wanted was to fly and... Martin closes his eyes really tight. 

And now he’s here. 

He tried for so long and he never got there so he thought that maybe if he just _pretended_ that he had an airline transport pilot licence, but then he couldn’t show it so maybe he could steal one and it all got out of hand very fast. He never meant to do any of it, but he needed experience for a job, and a job to get experience, and... 

Martin puts a hand over his mouth, wraps his other arm around his middle, and curls up into a ball. 

He swallows down the tears. 

And holds on tight.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. (Martin)

 

 

Martin opens his eyes slowly. His eyelashes are stuck together and his eyes burn as he blinks away the sleep. An unfamiliar grey ceiling comes into focus, and along with it comes a sudden cold shot of fear - he’s _in prison_. 

Still. 

Martin takes a gulp of air and looks at the bunk bed next to him. Douglas is a heap of blankets, but Arthur in the top bunk meets his eyes, smiles widely and mouths, “Good morning, Martin!” 

Martin tries to smile back. He has no idea how late or early it is. They took his watch. It’s not light in the room exactly because they don’t have a window, but there’s daylight coming through the crack under the door. It feels like it should be morning.

Arthur sits up, dangles his legs over the bed, and there’s a squeak as the bed frame moves and he jumps down. 

Douglas groans and turns around in his bed as Arthur steps to the toilet, opens his jumpsuit and oh - Martin looks away quickly. 

There are used tissues lying all around his pillow. Martin gathers them up into a pile. He used the whole package last night, and then re-used some that were already wet and snotty because he ran out. 

The sound of Arthur peeing is really loud this close by. It’s hard to ignore. 

Martin feels sore from sleeping on the mattress. Worn, already. He has spent twelve hours in prison now and all he wants is for someone to come in and tell him there was a mistake and that he can go. That he doesn’t belong here with these people.

Arthur finishes peeing and says, “You know, everyone cries a lot on their first night.” He stops himself, then goes, “That’s, um, _if_ you did. Not that I _saw_ that you did.” He hesitates. “Or heard.”

Martin knows what he’s doing. It’s nice, he supposes, but he’s pretty sure that they all heard him crying. 

“If you need more tissues later, I can give them to you.” Arthur takes his toothbrush. “Or toothpaste?”

Martin sits up and pushes his blanket off. His mouth does taste awful. “That would be nice. Thank you.” His voice feels scratchy, too. Martin glances at the toilet. He really has to pee. He has for most of the night, actually, but he didn’t dare to get up and do it. Now with hearing Arthur pee it’s become an urgent ache in his bladder. 

Arthur moves to the side and says, toothbrush in his mouth, “You can go.” 

“No, I don’t... have to. Yet. I can wait.” Martin breathes. He can wait until they’re outside. 

Arthur leans down and spits his toothpaste out. The sink gurgles loudly. “Yeah, but the thing is, you’ll have to go _eventually_.” 

“Are there no toilets anywhere else?” Martin didn’t notice anywhere there could be, but last night was sort of a blur. 

“Outside.” Arthur rinses his mouth, then wipes his face with a towel and says, “But you don’t want those.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know. Someone will see you, follow you in and hurt you.” Arthur says it casually. “Grab you, hold you down. Pee on you, too. This one time, they killed someone who went to the toilet.” 

“Arthur.” Douglas sits up in his bed. “Stop talking. It’s too early in the morning to deal with a panic attack.” 

Martin can feel his heart thud. “They _pee_ on you?” 

“Well…” Arthur shifts. “Maybe not on you?” 

Douglas sighs. “I’m sorry to break this to you, Martin, but they most definitely _will_ pee on you. You’re their type exactly. It’s that ‘hare in the headlights’ look that’ll do it.” 

“So they’re going to...” Martin swallows. “To want to do things? Like that? To me?” 

Douglas opens his mouth to reply, but there’s the sound of the door opening. Martin flinches only a little. It’s Mrs. Knapp-Shappey. She pokes her head in and says, “Rise and shine, my surly inmates!” 

“Good morning, Mum!” Arthur smiles widely. 

“Carolyn.” Douglas nods at her from his bed. 

She glances at Martin for a second, but before Martin can think of what to say to her, she says, “Well, duty calls.” And she’s off again. 

Martin crawls off his mattress and starts to make his bed. He’s not sure why, it just seems like the thing to do. He tries to put the corners under the mattress and make it look as neat like Arthur did. He’s almost finished when the guard from last night comes in next. 

Douglas sits up fully and Douglas’ legs nearly hit Martin’s back while he growls, “ _Karl._ ” 

Karl squints at Douglas. “ _Richardson._ ” Then he says, in a much more normal tone, “Morning, Arthur.” And, “Crieff, here ya go.” He holds out a towel and a packet of soap. 

Martin accepts them. “Thank you?” 

Karl steps into the cell, glances behind him, then takes something out of his pocket and hands it to Douglas quickly while he says, loudly, “Richardson! You need to make your bed to regulation!” 

He winks quickly at all of them and walks out. 

Douglas opens his hand. He’s holding a small plastic bag with something white in it. Drugs, Martin thinks. Of course it’s drugs - Douglas is a drug dealer. 

Douglas sees him looking and says, “Oh, lighten up. It’s priming sugar. Essential to the brewing process. Also, Arthur, move, I can’t get out of my bed with the two of you loitering on the only available square foot of floor space.” 

Douglas is right - it is really cramped with three people standing up at the same time. Martin sits back down onto his mattress and pulls his legs in so they’re out of the way, and Arthur climbs back onto the top bunk. Douglas takes out a dictionary, rolls the small bag Karl gave him up and stuffs it into the book’s spine, then turns towards the toilet. He has a pee, too. 

Martin averts his eyes. 

There’s really no privacy here at all. They have no choice but to listen to the sound of the pee hitting the toilet bowl, and Martin feels a cramp in sympathy at it. He really, _really_ needs to go. 

Douglas brushes his teeth next. Then he hangs a towel around his neck, soaps up his face, and shaves leisurely. 

Martin twitches. 

When he’s finally done shaving, Douglas turns around to make his bed, when Karl yells from the corridor, “Cells open!”

Martin takes his chance. “Can I just quickly pee? Please?” 

He feels like an idiot asking, because it’s too late, and what if Douglas says no, then what? But Douglas moves out of the way. “Be my guest.” 

Martin stands up and his bladder protests at even that. He opens his jumpsuit, pushes his pants down a bit, and aims quickly. It’s not the first time Martin has done this where people can see him, but he has always hated doing that. The relief is too great not to be glad he asked, though. 

Martin finishes peeing, and he feels just a little more in control. He can do this. Maybe. 

It lasts until Arthur says, “Take your towel and soap, we have a shower every other day before breakfast.” 

Martin’s heart starts thudding again. “A _shower?_ ”

“Unfamiliar with the concept, are we?” Douglas asks. 

“No, but I…” Martin looks at the bar of soap Karl gave him earlier. It’s white and small. 

Arthur explains, “You only get three minutes, so you’ll have to be fast. First it’s a minute of water, then it turns off for a minute so you can wash, and then it goes on again for two-”

But Martin remembers the joke Simon made when they all knew he’d go to prison - ‘Don’t drop the soap, Martin!’ Martin interrupts Arthur, “Do I _have_ to? Shower?”

Arthur looks at Douglas. “I’m not sure…”

“Yes, you have to.” Douglas seems sure. 

Martin tries, “But I did have a shower before I came here yesterday, so…”

“Martin, it’s not going to be any easier tomorrow. Or the day after.” Douglas seems serious. 

Martin doesn’t know what else to do, so he takes his towel and soap, and steps out of the cell along with them. 

Arthur is talking again. “The water is a bit orangey because the pipes are old, but…” 

Martin only half listens. They’re walking into a stream of people, and he is starting to recognise some from yesterday - the bald guy, then creepy Jeremy with the chain fence tattoo, and an old man with long while hair and a handlebar moustache Arthur said was called Redbird. Martin tries very hard not to meet anyone’s eyes. 

“...a bit like swimming, and I love swimming. Can you swim, Martin?”

Someone brusquely bumps his shoulder. Martin feels a shot of fear, and then stills and watches the man go. He’s not sure whether that was on purpose or not. He hurries after Arthur and Douglas.

Douglas is answering in his stead, “...the champion of my school, naturally. Long distance, mind you, I never was one for speed.”

“I didn’t know that, Douglas!” Arthur sounds impressed. 

“Yes, but are you surprised, really?”

They walk into the shower block. There is a row of toilet stalls, but they are all without doors. Martin looks at them with a feeling of horror. Arthur was right. He’s _really_ glad he already went in their cell instead.

The showers look the same - there are five small cubicles without a door or curtain, so everyone can see _everything_. There are people showering already. Martin can see beer bellies and hairy chests and someone with a giant flaming arrow tattoo right above his penis. Martin blinks. 

There are a couple of people changing clothes, too. Some are waiting their turn. 

Arthur starts undressing. “I like jumpsuits. It’s much better than regular clothes because you can take them off in one go!” 

He demonstrates, and Martin looks at him and smiles. But then he can’t look at Arthur anymore as he’s in his underwear. 

Arthur takes those off, too, saying, “And you never have to decide on what to wear in the mornings. It’s very practical.” 

“I, on the other hand, am never wearing orange again.” Douglas is taking off his jumpsuit as well, and then the undershirt under it. “For as long as I live. And _do_ feel free to quote me on that.” He puts his clothes aside on one of the benches and then steps out of his pants. 

Martin carefully opens a couple of his press studs and takes his jumpsuit off. He can do this. He’s been in gym class. Well, until Mum wrote him a note because it was awful and the other boys always picked on him. 

Martin tries not to look at either Douglas or Arthur, but they’re right there, so it’s hard not to. Arthur is completely naked, really, _fully_ naked, until he puts his towel around his waist. For Douglas, the towel doesn’t fully go around him, so he throws it over his shoulder. It seems… brave. 

The air feels cold on Martin’s back. He tries to breathe, just breathe, and he takes off his pants so fast he nearly trips over them, then quickly wraps the towel around his hips. Twice. 

Douglas walks to the showers. “Come on.”

Martin follows and tries not to see Douglas’ arse moving as he walks. Then he catches a glimpse of Arthur’s back - there are _scars_ all over his skin. They’re red and knotted and look painful. 

Martin looks down at his feet. It’s wet on the floor closer to the showers, as if the drains can’t handle all the water. There are large rubber mats. It smells damp in a bad, stale sort of way. There are some black splotches of mould growing on the walls. 

Douglas steps into a cubicle, but Arthur stays close, and Martin is glad of it. 

Douglas presses a button, and the water goes on. Douglas faces them, and then washes himself as if he’s done it a million times even though everyone can see him. His penis is _right there_ , bouncing a little as he moves.

Martin averts his eyes.

He looks behind him instead, at Arthur. Arthur has a mostly hairless chest, with a nice belly, and another scar right by his thigh that Martin can’t look at either, so he tries to keep his eyes on Arthur’s face and desperately tries to think of something to say.

Suddenly, Arthur steps even closer, until he’s flush against him. Martin tries not to squeak but they’re both _almost naked_. 

It’s one of the men from yesterday. Martin doesn’t know his name. He comes closer and grins. “So, how are you breaking him in?” 

Douglas says, while rinsing himself in the shower, “He’s a bit on the shy side. But then we’ll work on that, won’t we, Arthur?” 

Arthur puts his naked arm over Martin’s shoulders, presses their sides even closer together, and says, “Oh, he’s really nice, I like him!” 

Martin doesn’t pull away. He’s too scared to. 

The man looks him up and down, and Martin desperately wishes he had his jumpsuit on again. He’s so small compared to most of these people. He’s skinny, and he doesn’t have any muscles. He’s nothing, really. 

“Hmm, not bad…” The man reaches out a hand to Martin’s chest and traces one single finger from Martin’s belly button up over his ribs. Martin pulls back, but he can’t go anywhere. 

Douglas makes a movement in the shower that shows that he’s getting ready to intervene, but Arthur steps forward first and says, “No! He’s mine, Mingo! Mine and Douglas’.” 

Douglas says, “That’s right. He’s our property, so kindly get your hands off him.”

Mingo slowly takes a step back. “Too bad.” He winks at Martin. “See you later, pretty.” 

He walks off. Martin stays leaned against Arthur until he’s out of sight. Even then, he relaxes only a little bit. That was _awful_. 

Douglas rinses off, gets out of the shower, and then Arthur says, “You should go now.”

Martin awkwardly steps out of Arthur’s embrace and into the shower. His knees feel weak. 

He unwraps his towel, hands it to Arthur, and hunches over. Martin’s back is to everyone else and a long, icy shiver rolls over his skin as he realises they’re probably all _looking_ at him right now. He presses the button. The water is only lukewarm. Martin tries to move around a little so he gets wet everywhere and desperately thinks about the bathroom in Mum’s home where he had a shower yesterday. The gleaming white tiles. He can pretend he’s there. 

Martin turns his head and looks at Arthur still standing right there, waiting for him. Martin can see Douglas where they left their clothes, towelling his back. He’s fine, it’s fine. 

The shower cuts off faster than he thought it would. He forgot his soap. Martin looks back at the dressing bit. Should he go get it? 

Arthur holds out his little bottle of shampoo. “Here, you can have mine.” Martin takes some shampoo and puts it on his hair, feeling both as if he’s operating on automatic pilot, and as if every moment is screeching with nerves. 

Arthur gives him his soap, too, and Martin does rub some soap over himself, and then the shower goes on again, so he gives up on the rest. He uses his hands to get the water everywhere and get it all off. The foam from the soap drifts on the flooded floor. The two minutes seem long. 

Endless. 

And then the shower shuts off. 

Martin steps out, naked, to Arthur handing him his towel. There are different men around, now. Looking up. Glaring at him. There’s someone in the corner groaning and _touching himself_. Martin averts his eyes. 

Arthur gets into the shower, which leaves Martin alone. He walks to where Douglas and his clothes are and immediately tries to get his legs into his pants, but he’s still wet, so the fabric clings to his skin and he struggles getting dressed. He hurries, though. 

Arthur is showering, and Martin doesn’t want to look at him and his scars, that would be rude. But Douglas is chatting with a group of men and laughing, so he can’t be there, either. He hangs back and hopes that no one will see him. 

Martin feels immensely relieved when Arthur comes out of the shower and gets dressed. 

They walk out, through the mostly empty corridor now, and Arthur asks, “Oh, Martin, do you like Calippos?” 

Martin can’t imagine what he means, for a moment. 

Douglas says, “Or, if your tastes run elsewhere, some of us can get you a nice homemade brew… For a friendly price, naturally.” 

Martin hesitates because it’s probably not nice of him to say no when Douglas offers, but he says it anyway, “I don’t really drink. Thank you.” 

Douglas doesn’t seem insulted, luckily. “Ah well. More for the rest of us.” 

“I have to work, I’ll see you soon!” Arthur hands his towel to Douglas and goes through the side entrance to the kitchen, so it’s just Martin and Douglas walking again. 

Martin still feels more nervous being alone with Douglas. It’s strange how different Douglas seems when there are people around. How scary. They go to the cell, drop their towels off, and then go back. 

Once they’re in the mess, Douglas says, lowly, “All right, try to seem…” He waves his hand. “Vaguely abused. Give us a reputation if they ask.” 

Martin asks, “A reputation?” 

“Yes, pretend we both did some colourful things to you last night and threatened you if you’d tell. Try to wince when you sit down - gives it that extra touch of authenticity.”

Martin can feel something strange pulse in his stomach, like a horrible laugh that wants to come out, even though it’s really, really not funny. He takes a shaky breath. “…Okay.” 

Martin’s not sure if he’ll be able to eat at all. His stomach feels like it’s in knots again. He can’t help but startle constantly. He flinches every time someone comes close. 

He can hear some men at the table behind them laugh when he sits down carefully like Douglas told him to. One asks, “You did him right, Douglas?” 

Douglas turns around and smiles. “Ah, you know how that goes, slipped him a little late night delight…” He sounds _mean_. 

They all laugh again, and Martin shivers. He keeps his head down and looks at his tray. It has a blob of off-white, slimy-looking oatmeal. He doesn’t eat it. 

Martin looks at the counter to see Arthur, but he’s not there. Mr. B is serving breakfast alongside a large, bald man. 

Someone new comes to sit next to Douglas and chats with him in a low tone. Martin can hear the words ‘speedball’ and ‘you’re the man!’ 

When Douglas finally busts his tray, Martin follows him immediately. 

Once they’re far enough away that no one will hear, Martin asks, quietly, “Who were those men behind us?”

“Ah.” Douglas sighs. “That would be M.G. and his men. Jolly fellows. Fond of creative means of humiliation, as Arthur mentioned. You met Mingo this morning, he’s with them. Not to be confused with Frankie and his crew, who sit on the other side of the room and are a more assorted bunch. Or the Oswald brothers, one of whom is for some unknown reason named _Badger_. Do prepare for the absurdity of grown men named after animals, there’s little originality here I’m afraid.” 

As they walk on, Douglas says, “In fact, you might want to think of a nickname for yourself, pump up that clearly non-existent street cred.” Douglas throws him a considering look. “What do you think - _Marty?_ ” 

Martin says, hesitantly, “I don’t think that would be very, um, imposing?”

“Hm, point taken.” Douglas says it with something warm in his voice. 

It makes Martin feel confident enough that he asks quickly, “How long were you an airline captain?” Martin almost feels as if he dreamed that bit last night.

“A captain? Two years. First officer before that for a good ten, and second officer before that, you know how it goes.”

“I… yes.” Martin’s never, ever talked with an airline captain like this. He does know some people from Fitton Flight School who went on to become second officers and such, but never like this. 

Douglas looks at him. “So that’s your heart’s desire, then? To become a pilot?” 

Martin nods. “Yes! Yes, I, that’s what I... wanted.” 

“How far did you get before all of this?”

“I passed the ATPL exams. I have met all the specified theoretical training requirements, that was _easy_. It’s just that the practical...” Martin takes a breath. It’s hard to admit this to a real pilot. “My supervised flight hours haven’t been... I took the Multi-Engine Instrument Rating three times! ...But I haven’t passed it yet.” Martin stops talking. 

It’s actually really terrible of him, to have failed that many times. 

But Douglas is looking at him, so Martin says, “I do, um, I do have the required flight hours! Over a thousand by now.” 

He paid for all of them himself. “I have done a hundred and thirty-four landings and take-offs. In Fitton. It’s just that, ah...” He doesn’t have the aptitude for it. That’s what his last examinator said. 

Also that he should just give up.

Twelve years is a very long time to keep on trying - Martin does know that. So he glances at Douglas and says, “It’s what I _wanted_ , to become a pilot. Before. Not anymore.” 

“Yes. _Clearly_ you’re over it.” Douglas eyes him. 

They arrive at the cell, and Douglas takes the book where he hid the white powder and puts it under his arm. “Well, time for the daily grind for me, too, I’m afraid.”

Martin gasps. He’s leaving him alone?

“Arthur will be back in an hour or so.” 

Martin wants to say, ‘Take me along, don’t leave me here!’ But he doesn’t. 

He lets Douglas leave, and it immediately feels terrible, being in the cell all on his own. 

Scary. 

Martin sits down on his mattress on the end that’s closest to the door and partially hidden by it, so that when people walk by, it seems like he’s not here. He tries to be really still. 

Then, after a while of tensing up every time there are footsteps in the hall, Martin takes the book Douglas was reading last night from his bed and looks at it. He’s careful not to disturb the bookmark. It’s a history of Greek myths. It says ‘property of Wirral Grammar School for Girls.” 

Martin turns it around and looks at the spine just in case, but there’s nothing hidden in this one. He opens it at a random page and reads a bit. He can’t focus very well on the story, but it’s better than doing nothing at all. 

Still, it feels like it’s been hours by the time the door suddenly bounces open, and Arthur says, “Hi!”

Martin tries not to stop breathing. “Oh, um, hello!” Then he looks down at his hands and says, “It’s Douglas’ book, I know! I’m sorry.” He closes it and quickly puts it back on Douglas’ bed, exactly where it was. 

Arthur shrugs. “It’s okay. You can get more, if you want. Douglas runs the library.” 

“He does?” Martin wondered what Douglas’ job was, but only after he was gone already. 

“Yes, he’s very good at it. People mostly get things besides books, things they really want. Like cigarettes and porn and drugs and crisps. Oh, and the beer is from the kitchen, Douglas and Mr. B make that.”

Martin doesn’t really know what to say to that. Only that he didn’t know that crisps were illegal, maybe. 

Arthur climbs onto his bed, takes his pillow, and puts it behind his back. 

Martin glances up at him. He’s not sure how much talking Arthur wants to do, but it’s still really nice that Arthur’s even here. 

Arthur leans forward a bit, and then asks, “Are you doing okay, Martin?” 

He seems to really want to hear the answer. 

Martin has to think about it for a moment. “I... am? I think? For the most part. Besides, you know, being here.” It’s weird to say that. 

Arthur nods. “After a while it’s not so bad, you’ll see.” 

Martin nods hesitantly. He’s not sure whether that’s true, but it’s nice of Arthur to care, he supposes.

Arthur adds, “Or well, it’s still bad. But less urgently bad, just normal bad? Because you’re here all the time, and you can’t be _that_ scared all the time. I mean, you can try, but it’s sort of impossible.” 

Martin’s not sure he got all of that, but he is grateful that Arthur is here, so Martin tries to think of something to ask Arthur in return. Something that doesn’t have anything to do with murder. Or Arthur’s terrible scars. Or how Martin is pretending that he is Arthur’s girlfriend.

Martin settles on, “So, your mum seems… nice?” 

She seems kind of terrifying to Martin, to be honest. But she did put him here with Arthur and Douglas, so that was probably really good of her. Martin can’t imagine what it would have been like if he was in a cell with one of the other people they’ve met.

“Oh, she’s one of my favourite people in the world!” Arthur seems enthusiastic. “She came here to be a prison guard for me.” 

Martin just sort of assumed that she was a guard here already and then Arthur ended up here too. Or that she pulled some strings or something. “She came here for you?” 

“Yes, after I was attacked a couple of times.” Arthur says it matter-of-factly.

Martin’s smile flutters away. “Oh.” That must be what the scars are about, then. 

“The first month I was here, they broke my nose, my wrist, two ribs, and they used a knife on me. Mum wouldn’t let me come back to gen pop at first. And then she came here.” Arthur smiles, sudden but bright. “And she moved _Douglas_ into my cell.”

Yes. Martin plays with the fabric of his jumpsuit. He’d actually been wondering, from what he's heard people say, “Are you two, um…” Martin eyes Arthur and tries to say it really carefully, “... _friends?_ ” 

Arthur smiles immediately. “Oh, yes, of course!” 

Martin isn’t sure what else to ask, after that. 

It doesn’t really matter. It’s probably all different in prison, anyway? Who knows what ‘friends’ means here. 

They chat for a long time, and Martin learns all kinds of things about Arthur. Arthur loves his job in the kitchen. Calippos - the ice lollies – are his favourites. Arthur shows Martin pictures of a dog named Snoopadoop, and then describes his crazy golf technique. He really does seem nice. And he doesn’t mention murder even once. 

A few hours later, Douglas comes back from the library, and he’s carrying something. 

Douglas hands Martin a thick book. “Here.” It has a black and white picture of a German fighter plane on it. ‘ _British Battles At Sea And In The Sky, 1940-1945._ ’ “Only thing with planes I could find.” 

Oh! Martin smiles at him. “Thank you, that’s great!”

Later that night, Martin angles the book so he gets enough light from Douglas’ reading light, and then reads about German war tactics. It’s not the best book, it’s a little boring. But it’s better than nothing. And Douglas got it for him, so Martin tries to look extra appreciative. 

Martin is twenty pages into the book when Arthur suddenly asks, quietly, “Douglas?”

“Hm?” Douglas is reading, too. He is over halfway in his book. 

“I want to… um. Can you, you know, read out loud?”

Douglas raises an eyebrow. It looks weird with the light strapped to his forehead. “Even with our guest here, Arthur?”

Martin says, quickly, “Oh, I don’t mind if you read out loud.” He wants to be accommodating, but it’s true, as well - he really doesn’t mind. Douglas reading out loud would be fine. 

“Yes - well, it’s not just reading, exactly.” 

Arthur looks at Martin from over the bed. “It’s… you know.”

Martin looks between them. “What?” 

“Arthur here is a healthy young man. And those tend to come with certain, let’s say, urges.” Douglas eyes him. 

Oh no. Is this… is it code? Are they going to _do_ something? Martin can feel a hint of panic.

Arthur says, “I can’t do it if I know that people are listening. So Douglas reads out loud for me.” 

So Arthur is asking them if _he_ can...? Martin glances at Arthur. He can’t see him very well, he’s more like a shadow, but he looks like he’s opening his jumpsuit. 

Martin can feel himself flush a little. 

Douglas starts reading - from where he was in his book, probably, “ _When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, they hurried down to the ship and brought their cauldrons with them._ ”

Douglas’ voice is really nice, it’s smooth and low, but Martin can’t follow the story while knowing that Arthur is… Martin looks back at Arthur and he’s not sure but it’s like Arthur was also looking at _him_ , maybe. Martin glances at him from the corner of his eyes. Arthur’s hand is definitely moving up and down. And oh, that’s really sort of... No, he can’t pay attention to that! 

Martin looks at Douglas instead and tries to focus on the words. “ _...and all of you, farewell. Make your drink-offerings and send me on my way rejoicing, for you have fulfilled my heart's desire..._ ” 

Martin doesn’t look at Arthur anymore, but he can hear the back and forth of Arthur’s hand in the moments where Douglas takes a breath. 

Martin bites his lip as he listens to Douglas’ deep timbre while he reads, “ _...said he, henceforward and for ever, till age and death, the common lot of mankind, lay their hands upon you._ ”

And then there’s, “Ooooh!”

Martin can feel his own cheeks burn for Arthur’s sake. 

Douglas finishes the sentence with a flourish. “ _...and I now take my leave._ ” 

Arthur is making the crinkling sounds of opening a packet of tissues, and Martin realises with something hot in his belly that he can _smell_ him. 

Douglas says, “My apologies if this has scarred you for life.” 

Martin says, “I, ah…” There’s something breathy to his voice but he can’t help it. “No, no, that’s, I mean, it’s normal, right? Natural. Everyone does, um, that. Sometimes.” He breathes. “I’ve heard.”

“Mhm.” Douglas seems amused. 

Arthur is doing up some of his press studs, Martin can hear the little snaps of his jumpsuit. Martin tries not to feel anything at all like arousal at that, which is why he says to Douglas, stupidly, “And you have a great reading voice.” 

Douglas takes it well, luckily. “Why yes, I rather do, don’t I?” Then he asks, as if it’s totally normal, “Feel better, Arthur?” 

“Oh, much!” Arthur sounds pleased. “Thank you, Douglas!” and then, “You, too, Martin!” He hesitates, “You know, if either of you wants to…” 

Martin is not doing _that!_ He’s not going to. Ever. He doesn’t answer. 

“Not tonight I think.” Douglas says it easily. 

Which means that sometimes he does? Of course he does. It’s not like it’s a surprise that Douglas is capable of... it. It’s just that the thought of it is a little… Martin turns around on his mattress and looks at the wall. 

The truth is that he didn’t even think about how they’d do that here. Or how anyone would. Martin sort of assumed that it would be so horrible here all the time that it would never happen. But now he can imagine that it does happen. Everywhere. In all of the bunks. 

After a few minutes, Arthur starts snoring. 

Martin knows that he should find it annoying, but he doesn’t. Arthur snored last night, too. He’s already starting to get used to the sound. 

A while later, Douglas closes his book and turns off the light. 

Martin closes his eyes, too, and tries to remember that he’s okay. It’s all… okay. 

For now.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. (Arthur)

 

 

Arthur wakes up, grabs his pen, and circles today’s date on the calendar like he does every day. 

Then, he looks at Martin who’s still asleep – Arthur can see him from his bed. There are only three tissues around Martin’s pillow this morning, that’s good. He’s been crying less at night. 

Arthur leans out of his bed a little and looks right below him at Douglas. Douglas always pulls his blankets over his head when he’s already awake but he doesn’t want to be, like right now. 

Arthur waits until he can hear the guards changing shift outside - that means it’s a couple of minutes before seven - and then he pushes off his blanket and jumps off the bunk bed. “It’s the weeeeekend!” 

Douglas grumbles, and he says the same thing he always does, “Arthur, it’s seven in the morning. _Do_ shut up.” 

Arthur grins. “But it’s _Saturday!_ ” 

He opens his jumpsuit and starts to pee, because he really has to go. 

Martin immediately turns around on his mattress so he can’t see. He still seems really shy, sometimes. Even though Martin has been in their cell for five days now. 

When Arthur is done peeing, he brushes his teeth and Martin sits up and asks him, “Is there anything different because it’s the weekend?” 

Arthur nods around his toothbrush. 

Douglas says, from his bed, “Oh yes, prepare for the delights of enforced walking around the yard, which is a truly _charming_ location for a casual stroll. Not to mention the ‘radically inclusive’ church services on Sunday mornings presented over by _Redbird_ , our resident hippie, in lieu of an actual priest.” 

Arthur takes his toothbrush out of his mouth to say, “There’s also NA.” That’s his favourite bit. 

“NA, you mean…” Martin whispers as if it’s a dirty word, “ _Narcotics Anonymous?_ ” 

“Yes, it’s brilliant!” Arthur smiles even though his mouth is full of toothpaste, then rinses and says, “You don’t have to be a drug addict, they do all kinds in one go. You’ll like it!”

“Oh, I don’t really… I mean, I’ve never…” Martin stammers. 

He does that a lot. Arthur thinks it’s really cute. But he knows not to say that, because then Martin would be insulted, maybe. 

“…I’ve never been addicted to anything.” Martin swallows and looks up at him as if he’s confessed something really important. 

“Oh, that’s hardly an issue,” Douglas says. 

Martin glances at Douglas. “You’re going, too?”

“Yes, eight years since my last hit. And I miss it _so_. And Arthur here has been off the sauce, what is it, a couple of years by now?”

“A thousand and thirty-three days.” Arthur wipes his mouth with his towel. He counts the days on his calendar with pictures of Snoopadoop on it hanging next to his bed. “I got my chip last month.”

“Congratulations?” Martin seems unsure about what to say. “So you, um, used to be addicted?” 

“Yeah.” Arthur nods. “But not really, though.” He whispers, “I'm _pretending_.” Arthur never liked the taste of alcohol. Mum would let him have it if he wanted it, but it just tastes bad somehow. Definitely not as good as juice. 

Martin frowns. “…Why?”

“Good behaviour,” Douglas says. “You can always try to find religion, too, I suppose. But this seemed a tad more manageable.” 

“And they have biscuits!” Maybe Martin will want to eat some. 

Other then that cheesecake Arthur stole from the guards, Martin hasn’t finished a single meal since he’s been here. Arthur remembers that feeling of being sick to your stomach because you’re so scared, but he really should eat. It’s unhealthy not to. 

“But I haven’t… I mean, I don’t think I could fake it? Having a drug addiction?” 

“Yes, you’re not exactly the heroin type, are you?” Douglas looks Martin over. “Maybe something prescription? Valium? Oh, I know, _amphetamines_. Say you were diagnosed with ADHD as a child and never managed to function without that daily hit of Adderall. They’ll believe that, you’ve got the personality for it.” 

“…I do?” Martin looks at Arthur. 

Arthur doesn’t know, really. But Douglas nods. “Trust me.”

Arthur smiles at Martin. He likes doing that. Maybe because Martin always seems so surprised to have someone smile at him - as if he wants to look behind him and double-check that it’s really for him. 

In NA, Arthur sits in between Douglas and Martin, and they listen to everyone tell stories about what they did when they were high, or drunk, or both. 

Martin’s eyes go sort of wide at some of the stuff they hear. 

Arthur always thought it’s really interesting, too. He never knew people could bite through their own skin to find bugs crawling underneath, for example. Or murder other people because they think they’re pigs. Maybe that was about the police? Jay was sort of ranting a bit and Arthur couldn’t understand him well. 

The biscuits are stale, but Martin does eat one when Arthur gives it to him. 

Douglas turns his nose up at them. Arthur has five.

When it’s his turn, Martin says what Douglas told him to say, that he’s addicted to amphetamines. The counsellor nods. “Oh yes, you know, that’s not uncommon? Not so much here in prison, mind. But it is a well-known issue.” She stamps Martin’s card.

Arthur tells Martin later that that’s what he’ll have to show the Parole Board, and Martin nods very seriously and keeps it carefully tucked away. 

After lunch, they’re allowed outside in the grey, walled off prison yard. Arthur has always really liked it. It’s almost like a playground, and they all have recess. 

Sometimes though, going outside makes it harder, too. Because you can’t peek over the wall if you’d want to - there’s a fence first, and if you’d try to climb it, the guards would shoot you. Or you can’t keep on walking, because when you’ve reached the fence you have to turn around and walk the same bit back. The asphalt is a little worn there. Some people do nothing else but walk back and forth for two hours straight. 

As they step outside, Arthur makes sure to keep an eye on Martin. Douglas watches him, too, of course. There’s Frankie’s crew on the one side and M.G’s on the other, and they’ve been wanting to fight for days. You can sort of feel it in the air. 

Arthur checks with Douglas, who nods. That means they’re safe for right now. 

Martin isn’t looking at any of the other men and wondering when they will fight though, Martin is looking up at the sky. Douglas smiles a very small smile for a moment and then says, “I’d say one Beaufort, if even that.”

Martin turns his head. He looks startled. “What? _How_ did you…?” 

“I can _read your mind_ , Martin.” 

Martin nods, but his face falls a little. He says, “It’s perfect flying weather.” He sounds as if he might cry. 

Martin seems sad whenever he’s thinking about flying - Arthur has noticed that before. Martin is not like Douglas, Douglas _loves_ to tell stories about all the places he’s flown to. Sometimes, after a nightmare, Arthur will crawl into Douglas’ bed and he’ll tell him any story he wants to hear. Douglas is amazing like that. 

Douglas says “I wouldn’t say _perfect_ , perfect would be more cloud cover. A good thick layer to fly through.” Douglas speaks on, “Or a storm, those are _fun_.” 

“No, ‘perfect’ means weather conditions that offer the least chance of weather-related complications, Douglas. That’s obvious.” Martin sounds as if he knows what he’s talking about. 

Douglas says, “I believe the definition of ‘perfect’ is really quite overshadowed by personal preference, wouldn’t you say?” 

Is it? Arthur is never sure of things like that. He says, “Mum says that she likes the storms the best, too, because then you can charge the passengers more.”

“Your mum?” Martin frowns. 

Arthur remembers that he hasn’t told Martin - “Mum used to be a stewardess, a long time ago. And now we have GERTI, of course.”

Martin seems confused. “Who is Gerti?” 

Douglas looks at Arthur and smiles. “Hold onto your hat, Martin, your tender mind is about to be blown.” 

Arthur says, “GERTI is my Mum’s jet!” 

Martin’s eyes go wide. “Your mother – your mother _the prison guard_ – has a private… _jet?_ ” His voice goes all high on the last word. 

“Yes. Or well, she got it in the divorce.” 

Martin is blinking a lot. 

“From my dad.” Arthur explains, “She wasn’t a prison guard before, you see. She just became one. For me.” 

Martin says, sounding odd, “You Mum _became_ a prison guard for you?”

“At age, what, sixty-two?” Douglas sounds impressed. “Carolyn’s _quite_ the woman.” 

She really is. Mum is the best.

Martin is still blinking a lot, but Jay comes over, and Arthur has to leave Martin and Douglas by the fence because he has to go play basketball. 

That’s one thing Arthur’s gotten a lot better at in prison - as soon as his ribs healed Arthur practised, and now most of the time he’s allowed on a basketball team. Of course sometimes they still try to hurt him, like hit him in the face or elbow him in the side, but Douglas is there to watch him. And so are some of the others. Arthur has friends, now, it’s not like it was in the beginning. 

Douglas never liked basketball. Not even when Arthur asked him to play. 

Arthur felt sad about that for a bit, until Douglas told him, “I am loath to admit this, but that particular sport has always passed me by.” 

Then Arthur realised that Douglas maybe can’t play very well. And that he doesn’t want anyone to see. So Arthur makes sure that he does play well, for the both of them. 

Arthur makes sure to check on Martin in-between bouncing the ball, too. Martin is still looking at the sky, but without that pinch between his eyes as if he’s trying not to cry. Now, he’s just excited-looking while he’s talking to Douglas. 

Until Mingo whistles at Martin and calls him ‘pretty boy’ again. And then Rahan licks his lips and makes smacking noises. Douglas gives them a look to scare them off. 

Arthur feels angry at it, too. He knows that Martin isn’t really _theirs_ , of course - Martin is a person who belongs to himself. But still, it isn’t very hard to throw an evil look towards anyone who looks at Martin. 

When the game ends, Arthur is all sweaty and out of breath. Douglas is talking to M.G., so Arthur looks at him, nods, and then goes to stand by Martin. 

“Hullo.”

“You were playing well.”

“Thank you!” Arthur can feel something warm inside of him at hearing that. He says, “I was never great at sports, before.” Mainly because the other kids in school never wanted to pick him for their team. “It’s important to exercise in prison, though.” Arthur saw that on a poster in the hospital wing when he was there because he needed to get stitched up. It was above his bed. 

“Yes, that’s... sensible.” Martin always sounds so shy. As if he’s secretly glad that someone is talking to him, but that he’s also not really sure why they are bothering. 

Arthur wants to ask Martin whether he wants to join them next week. But then he remembers Douglas, and that not everyone is very good at playing basketball, so he says, “I could teach you, if you want to? …Not that there are many places where I could teach you, because we’re not allowed to take a ball into our cell.” And even then, that probably wouldn’t work. 

Mingo walks by, and Martin leans a little closer to him. Arthur takes his hand and tangles their fingers. 

Martin says, “I... that would be nice?” but he sounds as if he’s distracted. 

They wait for Douglas – who made a deal with M.G about porn magazines, Arthur heard them earlier - and then walk back inside. 

Douglas has never taken Martin’s hand. Arthur feels a bit as if that isn’t fair, since Martin is Douglas’ girlfriend, too? But maybe he just doesn’t like to do that in public so much, Arthur doesn’t know. And he’s not sure about asking, either. He doesn’t want to ask things that are too personal. 

Douglas said that in the beginning, when Arthur’s scars were still new and the stitches pulled and itched, he said, “I won’t ask anything overly personal about how you got those. Just tell me if and when whoever did that comes back and you need help.” 

So Arthur never did.

That afternoon, Martin is allowed a call home. It’s his very first phone call, and Arthur is already pretty sure that Martin will end up crying, so he goes along and stuffs a whole packet of tissues into his pocket. He stands close to Martin so no one will see him cry. 

Martin calls his mum.

She cries on the phone pretty much as soon as she accepts the call. Arthur can hear her. She asks, in between breaths, “How are you, dear?” and then immediately says, “It’s so terrible, prison,” and, “We all miss you.” 

Martin says that’s it’s okay, but she doesn’t seem to be listening, saying, “I wish you’d never gone there, Martin.” 

Then she says, “Simon would never have done something like this,” which makes Martin’s face go all blank and sad when he says, “No, Mum, I suppose Simon never would have.” 

They only get five minutes of phone credit a week, so the line disconnects before Martin talks very much at all. 

He doesn’t cry, but he looks very pale and sad. 

Arthur tries to think of things to cheer Martin up, but he’s not sure what to say. 

As soon as they get back to the cell, Martin sits down to read his book. He seems distracted by it, so Arthur breathes a little easier. He wants Martin to be okay. 

A while later, Mum comes by. “I come bearing gifts.” 

She brought a Calippo because it’s Saturday. 

“Thank you, Mum.” Arthur smiles at her, then looks at Martin and wonders whether he should ask Mum for something for Martin, too. What would he like? 

“You’re welcome.” Mum gives Douglas a little roll of money, and then asks, “So, how are you idiots doing?” 

“We’re great!” 

Mum looks at Douglas. “Are you keeping Tweedledum here, or do I need to find a permanent place for him?” 

Arthur is already nodding. Mum knows he wants to keep Martin because Arthur has told her many times already when she comes by in the kitchen to check on him. But she needs to know for sure. “Yes, Mum, let him stay. Please.”

Douglas says, lazily, “The regrettable waste of floor space aside, I recon we should keep him.” 

Mum asks Martin, “And what do you want?” 

Martin ducks his head and says, quietly, “I would like to stay. Ma’am.” 

Mum raises her eyebrows and says, “Hm, all right then.” She’s a little pleased that Martin called her _ma’am_ , Arthur thinks, even though she would never tell him. 

She leaves. Douglas hides his money in a secret compartment in his slipper, and Martin says, quietly, “Thank you.” 

Arthur smiles and says, “Of course, Martin!”

Douglas just nods and focuses on trying to open the battery pack of his headlight. There’s a speedball in there that he’s going to trade Fat Willy for five minutes of time in the janitorial storage locker, where he will steal wire for Badger to try and kill his brother – Arthur heard them making the deal in the library last week. 

Douglas always knows an answer to everything. 

And now he’s protecting Martin, too, which is amazing. Arthur makes sure to smile at him, too. Douglas is _brilliant_. 

Actually, Arthur has never told Douglas this, but out of all the people in the world… Well, Mum was always his favourite, of course, because she’s Mum. She’s his best friend. But Douglas is his favourite in a different way. 

Arthur really loves sharing a cell with him and getting to see him every day first thing in the morning and last thing at night. 

Arthur is in love with Douglas. 

He knows he can’t _say_ that. But quite often it’s sort of on the tip of his tongue and he has to try hard _not_ to say it. And that’s how you know it’s real love, Arthur thinks. When you have to make sure to keep some of it secret because if the other person would notice, they might be overwhelmed. And even though you really _want_ to tell them, you don’t, because you want them to be happy and comfortable most of all. 

Arthur wants Douglas to be happy and comfortable.

Martin, too.

They have lasagne for dinner. Arthur gets his only after everyone has left and the kitchen is cleaned up, so he takes a portion with him back to the cell. 

And he takes a piece of chocolate cake from the guard’s special fridge. Arthur thinks it’s okay, really, because they get dessert every day! and the inmates hardly ever do. Arthur won’t have any himself - he only stole the one piece, otherwise they might notice - so he carefully cuts it in two and puts it on two plates. 

Douglas and Martin are already settling in for the night when he gets back to the cell. Both of them are reading. 

Arthur hands one half of the cake to Douglas. “Here you go, Douglas!” And one to Martin. “Martin, this is for you!”

Arthur sits by Martin’s feet on his mattress to eat. Martin smiles at him, and he does try the cake. Douglas says, “Arthur, your capacity to casually steal food from the guards will never cease to amaze me.”

Arthur knows that Douglas means thank you, so he says, “It was my pleasure, Douglas!” 

It’s the most awful lasagne Arthur has ever tried. He knows it isn’t good, but they can’t make it any better since they don’t have a proper oven anymore ever since DeShawn tried to kill himself with it and set half the kitchen on fire last year. 

Douglas says, “I’m assuming you can’t stomach it, either.” 

“I’m trying to!” Arthur really is trying to eat it. “It’s just that it’s, well... not very good.”

“Hah! That’s an understatement.” 

Martin says, “I’m sorry.” 

Arthur didn’t _make_ the lasagne. He just microwaved it in really big slabs. So it’s not his anyway, but he nods. “It’s okay.” 

Douglas sighs and says, “On my last honeymoon, Helena and I had lasagne in a Michelin star restaurant near the Altare Della Patria in Rome. With a bottle of Barbaresco... _God_ , I would get married again just to taste it. In a heartbeat.”

As he speaks, Arthur manages to chew and eat a bit. It sounds great, the way Douglas tells it. 

Arthur would love to go to Italy, too, some day. With Douglas. Maybe with Martin, too? Arthur does know that it will probably never happen, but he likes thinking of things like that, sometimes. What it could be like if he was not in prison anymore. 

After a while, Martin says, “I didn’t know you were married, Douglas.” 

“Hm? No, not anymore. I’m afraid the sudden inconvenience of a ten-year prison sentence ended things rather abruptly. By all accounts she’s living with a professional tennis player named _Carol_ these days.”

“…Oh.” Martin seems worried now that he asked. Arthur looks at him and hopes that he knows it’s okay. Douglas doesn’t like to talk about his ex-wives, but he’s never mean about it. “I’m… sorry?”

“Ah, you lose some, you…” Douglas leaves a space there, and then gives Martin a look. 

Arthur smiles a little, not sure whether it was a joke. Douglas can be really unhappy, sometimes. 

They all are. 

That’s okay, you’re probably supposed to be unhappy in prison. 

But ten years - or seven years for Arthur, Arthur only got seven for voluntary manslaughter because there were _extenuating circumstances_ the judge said - is a very long time to be unhappy all the time. Or that’s what Arthur thinks. It’s pretty much impossible. 

It’s like he told Martin - you just get used to it, and then that’s the new normal. There are still good bits and bad bits, just like there would be in life outside. Like, NA, Arthur loves that. Or the lasagne, that was pretty awful, but Douglas talking about it made it okay. Life is always going to be like that no matter where you are. 

Eventually, Arthur puts his plate aside, scrapes the rest of the lasagne into the toilet, and flushes it. 

Douglas says, “A worthy end to that monstrosity.” 

Right before the lights go out, Johnson comes in. He’s not a good guard, Arthur doesn’t like him. He’s always awful for no reason. He’s holding a piece of paper and says, “Martin Crieff?” 

Martin looks up. “Yes?” 

“Gather your things. You’re being moved.”

Martin makes a strange sort of sound. “Uhh... no, this is my cell?” He looks at Douglas. 

“It certainly is.” Douglas stands up and tells Martin, “You’re staying right here.” Then he says to the guard, “He’s only here for a couple of months. We’ve cleared it, we’re keeping him.” 

Johnson says, “It’s against the rules, three prisoners to a cell. Health and safety.” 

“You can’t move an inmate in this section without having Carolyn – oh, I’m sorry - _Guard Knapp-Shappey_ sign off on it. And I know for a fact that she has not.” Douglas glances at the paper. Johnson pulls it away sharply. “I don’t see her signature there. Do you, Arthur?” 

Arthur tries to look at it as well and says, “No, I don’t see a signature at all!” 

Johnson shrugs. “I don’t have to answer to you two. Crieff, get to it.” 

After a moment, Martin does take his things - his towel, and soap, and toothbrush. He doesn’t have a lot. His hands are shaking so badly that Arthur can see them move. 

Douglas says to Johnson, “Arthur _will_ call his mother. You are aware of that.”

Arthur says quickly, “I will! I’ll call her.” And as soon as Mum knows, she’ll help Martin and make it all okay again. 

“Tomorrow, sure. But for now she’s off shift, you don’t have a phone, and I have a transfer order in my hand. He’s going.”

“Who bribed you for him, Johnson?” Douglas sounds angry. Proper angry. “Short on cash, are you? Still building that kitchen extension, and therefore willing to turn a blind eye?” 

“One more word out of you and you’re in solitary, Richardson. I’m not kidding.” 

He’s not. Douglas was in solitary for two weeks once, in the beginning. When he came back, he didn’t speak much for a while. 

Douglas doesn’t say any more, but he doesn’t sit down, either.

Martin takes his things in his arms and stands. He looks like he might faint. 

“Martin, no! You don’t, no, you can’t go!” Arthur turns to Johnson even though he knows it won’t help. “Please?” 

Johnson says, “Come on.” He grabs Martin’s arm and pulls him out into the corridor. 

The last thing Arthur sees is Martin’s wide, scared eyes, and then the cell door falls shut. 

Arthur yells through it, “Martin! I’ll call Mum!” 

Douglas says, “Martin, listen, we _will_ get you out, remember that. All you have to do is get through…” Douglas stops talking as he realises Martin won’t hear him anymore. 

Douglas looks at him. Arthur can feel some tears prickle in his eyes. 

Martin is alone, now. 

And there’s nothing they can do.

The lights go out, and Arthur brushes his teeth, and then pees. Douglas puts his light on and reads, but there’s a strange silence. 

Arthur wants to bang his fists on the door even though he knows that won’t help and he’ll just bruise his knuckles – he’s done it before, once. The blood smears were on there for days. 

His scars hurt. Arthur doesn’t like to think of them, but he can feel them on his skin sometimes as if they’re not really a part of him. They were put there, on him. Like maybe Martin will… Arthur takes a shaky breath. 

Douglas looks at him, and then opens the covers. 

Arthur crawls into Douglas’ bed. He can only just fit on his side next to Douglas. Arthur puts his head onto Douglas’ chest and Douglas’ arm curls around him. 

Arthur is still feeling like he wants to cry. 

“He’ll get through it.” Douglas’ voice rumbles a bit when he speaks. 

“I don’t want him to get hurt! And he’ll get hurt. You _know_ …” Douglas runs his hand through Arthur’s hair, and Arthur stops speaking. 

Arthur closes his eyes. He can hear Douglas’ heartbeat. Douglas only does this sometimes, when Arthur’s upset, or crying. It always helps to make him feel better, usually. But it doesn’t this time. 

Douglas says, “We’re getting him out in the morning.” 

Arthur nods, even though Douglas can’t see him. 

He repeats it inside of his own head, loud enough that maybe, in some way, Martin will hear him. 

_Promise._

 

 

 

 

 


	4. (Martin)

 

 

Martin isn’t sure whether it is morning or night still. He is lying curled up onto a bare mattress. 

Frankie took all of his things. 

The sides of Martin’s mouth are raw, and when he pokes against them with his tongue he can taste metal. His throat feels swollen, too. It’s hard to swallow.

Frankie is listening to music on his headphones right now - Martin can hear the tinny sound coming from the bed above him. 

He can hear some noises outside, too. The guards are starting their day shifts. It is morning, then. Maybe Mrs. Knapp-Shappey will come and get him out. Maybe it will be Karl. Maybe they won’t come at all and Frankie will just do what he did again and again, and worse, too. 

Maybe no one cares. 

Part of Martin wants to try the door, to gets his fingers under it and pull, kick at it, force it open. He already knows that he won’t be strong enough to do that, but he wants to leave so badly that he can feel his whole body turn towards it anyway. 

If he could get away from here, Martin already knows that he would never, ever do anything bad again for as long as he lives. He wouldn’t even cross the road if the traffic light is red and there is no one around. Or drive over the speed limit. Ever. He’s always been a good person, and he would be again, if only... 

Martin stops himself from thinking like that. He has five months and three weeks to go. He can’t get out. 

When the door hisses and there’s the sound of ‘all cells open!’ Martin sits up quickly, even though his head is spinning. Are they going to help, the guards? Is anyone? 

Martin can hear someone at the door. He looks at it as it opens, hoping that… It _is_ Douglas! Arthur is right behind him. 

Frankie has seen them, too, and he jumps down from the bed. “What do you think you’re doin’?” 

Frankie is blocking the way so Martin can’t get out, but Douglas quickly nods at him, and Arthur smiles from behind Douglas’ shoulder, even though he looks terrified. Martin can barely believe it - they really came for him. Hope thuds in his chest. 

“Oh, I don’t know…” Douglas shows Frankie that he is holding a makeshift knife. It looks like a toothbrush with a razor melted into it. 

“What, you going to knife me now, that it?” 

“Lord, no. You’d just send your goons after us.” Douglas grins. “We’d have to _kill_ you, wouldn’t we?” 

Martin stifles a gasp. They can’t really… can they?

Douglas talks on, “Not _me_ , mind. I don’t fancy adding a few years to my sentence. But Arthur here – he could get away with it in self-defence. _Mummy_ would understand.” 

Frankie blocks the door and looks at Arthur speculatively. “He doesn’t have the balls. Or the brains.” 

“He is neither clever nor fast enough to get one over on you, I agree entirely.” Douglas steps close to Frankie and lowers his voice. “But that’s where I come in. In my long and storied past I studied medicine, and I can tell him _exactly_ where your carotid artery is. Which he will then proceed to ‘accidentally’ stab when you try to assault him.” Douglas shrugs. “Easy enough.” 

Frankie looks back at Martin. “Why do you care about him, anyway? There’s much better.” 

Martin tries not to seem scared, even though he is. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat. He can barely breathe. 

“He’s ours!” Arthur says, and he does sound upset. 

Arthur has already killed a person once, Martin reminds himself. Arthur could really do it if he wanted to. 

Frankie seems to be thinking the same thing, because he pauses. Then he says, considering, “Hardly worth the money, him.” 

“Good, then we’re relieving you of unwanted goods.” Douglas signals, and Martin gets closer.

Martin feels faint as Arthur pushes past Frankie, takes his arm, _and gets him out of the cell_. 

Douglas says, “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

And that’s it, they’re out. 

They walk through the corridor in a quick shuffle. There are other men passing them by on the way to breakfast. Jeremy. Mingo. The bald guy from the kitchen. Then the one from Narcotics Anonymous that murdered three police officers and who Arthur plays basketball with, he says hi. 

Martin feels weird walking, as if the floor is uneven like a bouncy castle. He stays between Arthur and Douglas while Douglas parries questions like, “Got him back, Richardson?” and “Will you look at that, they rescued their little princess. Must be love, then.” 

Martin can feel Arthur next to him tense at that, but they walk on. 

They get one more wolf-whistle, and then they’re in their own corridor, still hurrying. 

They only stop when they step into their cell. 

But Martin feels as if he should be running further away still, as if he should get far, far away from all of this. He looks to the door, not sure whether Frankie might have followed them. Douglas is standing there, still watching the corridor. 

Arthur touches his arm. Martin sees it, but he doesn’t really feel it. “Are you all right, Martin?” 

Now Douglas is looking at him, too. Martin doesn’t know what to say. They got him out, only… They didn’t really, because Frankie is only a corridor away. Martin glances at the door again. 

After a moment, Arthur starts forwards. He takes a cup, fills it from the tab, and gives it to Martin. “Here, if you... Maybe you’re thirsty?” He swallows. “I can get you food, too, if you’re hungry.” Arthur goes on, “There’s, there’s porridge for sure, and bread, and some Corn Flakes, and maybe...” His voice peters out. “…an orange?” 

Douglas asks, “What did he do?” 

Arthur says, quickly, “Douglas, I don’t think Martin wants to talk about that!”

“I’m aware. And Martin, after this you will _never_ need to tell anyone what happened, but right now I need to know exactly what he did, and where.” 

Martin runs his finger over the rim of the plastic cup between his hands. “...I’m fine.” His voice is hoarse. His throat still hurts.

“Right.” 

Arthur sits down on the floor, next to Martin’s mattress, and looks up at him. 

Martin lowers himself onto his mattress as well, or it’s more like his knees buckle from under him. He sits with his back pressed to the cold wall. 

“Where?” Douglas asks. He is still standing guard by the door. 

Where? Oh, he’s asking about… Martin sort of feels as if he’s looking at everything from very far away right now. “My… my mouth.” 

Arthur nods. “Oh.” 

“Did he touch you anywhere else? Hit you, cut you?” Douglas looks at him.

Martin feels ashamed of what he did, now. What he agreed to do, almost straight away. He explains, “He let me choose.” _Frankie’s a reasonable bloke, you see._ “I chose…” Martin can’t breathe, for a sickening moment. 

Arthur takes Martin’s hand, and he starts rubbing a soft back-and-forth with his thumb. 

The door suddenly opens wide. Douglas reacts quickly, but it’s Mrs. Knapp-Shappey who comes in. 

“Mum!” Arthur shouts. 

“…I just heard.” She looks at Martin. 

“How exactly is it that you didn’t _know_ , Carolyn?” Douglas sounds angry. 

“You know perfectly well I’m not omnipotent in this prison.” She sounds icy. Then she catches Martin’s eye and adds, “However much I would like to be.” 

It sounds like an apology. 

Martin nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I can transfer you to the hospital wing. It might be safer.” Mrs. Knapp-Shappey glances at Arthur. “For all involved.” 

Arthur says, “No, Mum.” 

Martin looks at Douglas, who says, “He’s staying.” 

Mrs. Knapp-Shappey hesitates, then sighs. “All right. I’ll arrange it. Don’t let him out for now.” 

Martin croaks, “Thank you.” He’s not sure she hears. 

He’s shaking again, for some reason. Martin’s not cold, really, but his hands and legs and back shake all by themselves. He has a sip from the plastic cup, nearly spilling liquid all over him. The water feels cool to his throat, even though it still feels like someone is... He says, “I didn’t fight.” 

It seems important that they know that about him. That they know he was a coward, because he was. Martin didn’t even try to fight. 

“It’s easier if you don’t,” Arthur says. He adds, while squeezing Martin’s hand, “It was like that for me, too, in the beginning. It gets better, though, you’ll see. I _promise_.”

Martin has seen the scars on Arthur’s back. This wasn’t nearly as bad as what must have happened to Arthur - Martin won’t have a scar from this. He really shouldn’t be upset at all, should he? 

He even got to choose. 

Martin looks at Douglas. Douglas would have fought. He is holding his improvised knife in his hand even now, Martin sees. Douglas would have done so, so much better.

Douglas says, “That’s what you do to survive, Martin.” 

Martin’s mouth still tastes bad despite the water. Martin wants to brush his teeth, but he doesn’t have a toothbrush anymore, it’s with Frankie. He looks over at the sink. He asks Arthur, “Can I use your toothpaste?” 

Arthur says immediately, “Yes, of course! You can take my toothbrush, too. It’s okay, I’ll get a new one later.” 

Martin stands up. He uses a lot of toothpaste and brushes his teeth and his tongue and then spits it all out and brushes again, until he knows that all he should be able to taste is toothpaste.

Martin wipes his face, then. He washes his hands with soap and dries them, and then sits down on his mattress again. 

Both Douglas and Arthur are still watching him, but Martin doesn’t know what else to say.

The day passes in odd shifts. 

Arthur has to leave for work, and when it’s just Douglas and Martin in the cell, Douglas sits down, reads a book, and doesn’t speak at all. Martin wonders if Douglas is angry with him. Or if he’s disappointed that Martin just gave in like that. 

When he can find the words for it, Martin tells him, quietly, “Thank you. For coming for me.” 

Douglas looks up from his book and says, “Ah, well, it’s all part of it, isn’t it? We had to reclaim our territory.” 

But Martin thinks he sounds kind of shaken up, too. 

Later, Douglas asks, out of nowhere, “You’re going back to getting your flight licence then, when you’re out?”

It takes Martin a moment to focus on the question. He answers, “No. I wasn’t meant to be a pilot. I will never pass the exam.” 

Martin knows that now. He’s just not good enough. He doesn’t have the _aptitude_ for it. 

Douglas says, “I reckon you might, still.” 

Martin knows it isn’t true. “I won’t. I’ve tried so many times now. It’s time to give up.” Martin decided that his first night in prison. No more trying. He needs to give up on his dreams, because there’s nothing left of them. He tried too hard, and _this_ is what happened. 

He can’t ever do this again. 

“Even if I could get my licence eventually, it wouldn’t matter. I can’t be a commercial pilot now. I have a record.”

“So what?” Douglas sounds sure. “You might have to look outside of the general market to find a job, but there are opportunities. _I_ certainly intend to fly after this.”

Martin never thought about that. And for a moment, he thinks of all the questions about the relative reactivity of flight simulators he’s been meaning to ask Douglas, and how he can sign up for another instrument rating test when he gets out, and... For a moment, Martin completely forgets that it even happened. Frankie. 

But then it comes right back.

Martin pulls his legs up, hugs his knees, and doesn’t talk about it anymore. 

Douglas still has the knife lying next to him. 

Arthur brings them food from the kitchen, and more horrible tea. Martin does drink the tea, mainly to make Arthur feel better. 

At one point, Douglas talks to Karl and Karl brings Martin a toothbrush and a whole new jumpsuit so he can change. 

It’s a long, grey sort of day. 

Even Arthur is quiet. 

When the count happens in the evening and the cell door closes, Martin moves under the covers as soon as he can. He just wants this day to be done. And maybe if he learns to sleep a lot, the days will go by quicker. Maybe then six months won’t seem that long. 

Arthur brushes his teeth like he always does, but instead of going to bed himself, he stops by Martin’s mattress. Arthur sits down on his knees and asks, “Do you want me to sing you a song so you can fall asleep? It’s what my mum used to do, when I was little.” 

It makes Martin smile a bit, in a weird way.

“Well, she does sing for me on my birthdays, still. But not on normal days anymore, because she doesn’t put me to bed anymore. ...I wish she would.” 

Arthur says it completely unselfconsciously, and it makes Martin think of his own mum. He says, “My mum used to sing _Come Josephine_ for me every night.” Only when he was very little, though. 

Douglas comments, from his bed, “ _Ah._ That explains a lot.” 

“I know that song!” Arthur starts to sing, “COME JOSEPHINE IN MY FLYING MACHINE! GOING UP SHE GOES! UP SHE GOES!” 

Martin winces. Arthur is really not very good at keeping tune, or making it sound anything like the song at all.

The silence seems to echo after Arthur is done singing. 

He didn’t know a lot of the words.

After a moment, Douglas says, “I am not going to follow that frankly _horrifying_ performance – even though I have a splendid singing voice. But have I ever told you about the time I made an emergency landing with a Cessna 337 Skymaster in the Brazilian rainforest?” 

“ _No_ ,” Martin says. He _definitely_ would have remembered that story. 

“Well, settle in.” Douglas starts by saying, “I was twenty-seven, devastatingly handsome, and also a brand new pilot. While backpacking through the jungle for some alcohol-fuelled reason or other, I met…”

Arthur is still kneeling by Martin’s mattress, and he has sort of shifted so he is leaning next to Martin as a warm weight. 

Douglas’ story is long and complicated and it can’t possibly be true. The Skymaster famously handles differently from conventional twin-engine aircraft, anyone knows that. Martin says, “No, Douglas! Without the issue of differential thrust, engine failure on landing will _not_ produce yaw from the runway heading!” He adds, “That’s basic knowledge.!” 

Douglas sounds like he’s smiling. “Well, we’ll just agree to disagree, then.” 

It makes Martin wish for his books, or for the internet. If he had that here, he could show Douglas that he’s wrong. But he can’t. 

He doesn’t have anything, here. 

Eventually, Arthur moves away to his own bed with a soft, “Good night, Martin!”

Then Douglas falls silent, too. He turns his light off and says, “’night.” 

Arthur has left behind a package of tissues. 

Martin feels strange. Part of him feels as if he _should_ break down and cry, now. But the rest of him is still thinking about the Cessna 337 Skymaster. 

He looks at the light under the door. 

Martin still _remembers_ all of it - what happened with Frankie. The smell. The feeling of choking. The hairs scratching against his cheek and nose. Drooling, and swallowing, and gasping for air. 

He wants to gag whenever he thinks of it. 

But maybe he’s just all out of tears. 

Mum used to say that, when he was little, ‘Stop crying, or you’ll run out of tears.’ It’s probably because Arthur mentioned it, but Martin does want his mum. He wants it to be like when he was little, to be put to bed with a kiss and to know that tomorrow everything will be all better. 

There were no monsters under his bed, then. 

Martin never thought he could feel like this. He was _so_ scared last night that he reached the end, and then he didn’t feel anything at all anymore. 

He can’t get out of here. He can’t get away from any of it. And that feeling, that’s it – that’s what prison really means. Martin didn’t know that before. 

He does now. 

Martin didn’t sleep at all last night, and he feels exhausted now. He is falling asleep, hovering on the edge between memories and nightmares, when he can distantly feel something by his feet. 

Something is moving. Something small but a bit heavy. It’s - oh god, _it’s A RAT!_

Martin freezes in absolute fear while it walks over his feet, then jumps off his leg and scutters past his mattress, so close he could reach out and touch it. 

And then it somehow presses itself under the door and runs away again. 

Martin hysterically breathes out a laugh. And then the tears bubble up out of nowhere, because there was a rat. On his bed. 

A _rat_.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. (Douglas)

 

 

Douglas barely slept. 

He had fully expected to hear Martin cry at one point or other during the night, but somehow the muted gasps still managed to startle him. Douglas can’t blame him for it. After all, Martin has reason to fall apart now.

But Douglas wishes to God that he didn’t. 

Even when Martin finally does quiet down, he is still _there_ enough that Douglas is kept awake. Morning creeps up slowly, and after hours of adrenaline-fuelled tossing and turning it should be a relief, but it doesn’t feel like it. 

Douglas has been in prison long enough that none of this is new. He’s seen it all happen before, and every time it does, every time he thinks he’s used to it, it drags him down a little more. 

There is no sense in losing sleep over Martin. There never was. All Douglas is responsible for in here is Arthur. 

Arthur who is currently letting out an anguished whimper. It’s a nightmare, probably. He used to get those a lot in the beginning, but it’s been months since the last one. 

Douglas meets Martin’s concerned eyes. 

He nods, sits up, then get out of bed and touches Arthur’s arm. “Arthur.”

Arthur lets out another frightened whine. He is struggling in his sleep. He seems to be fighting to escape some unknown assailant, but then again, they’re not unknown, are they? Douglas knows _exactly_ who they are - they pass by most of them in the corridor daily. “Arthur, you’re dreaming. Wake up.” 

Martin is following his every move, so Douglas angles his body, then strokes his hand over Arthur’s hair furtively. “Wake up, Arthur.” 

Arthur’s eyes fly open, and for a moment he doesn’t recognise him. Douglas hates seeing that look. 

Then Arthur blinks, realises who Douglas is, and immediately tries for a brave smile. “Douglas! Hello. Good morning.” 

Douglas gives him one more - selfish - stroke over his hair, and then sits down on his bed again while Arthur circles the date on his calendar. He’s near-obsessive about that thing. Douglas has seen Arthur with sweat beading on his face after nightmares like these, shaking so hard he can barely move, and still trying to grab a pen. 

Douglas sees the glances Arthur throws over his shoulder while they run into one of _them_ , too. 

But that’s all Douglas can do. See. 

Douglas was convicted a good year earlier than Arthur. He was in an entirely different wing of the prison at first, so he never knew the extent of what they did to Arthur. Not at the time. Douglas just knew that Carolyn Knapp-Shappey walked into this prison straight out of guard training, and that she took one look at Douglas’ little trading business - he was doing quite well for himself even then - and made him an offer. 

The money was good, but the privilege of having a guard to coordinate with was priceless. It was a carte blanche to run his own trade right in the open, so of course Douglas took it. 

But it became something else altogether when he got to know Arthur. 

Arthur was overly friendly, even right then. _Kind._

The first time Arthur took off his shirt to shower, Douglas had to swallow back some bile at it, because even though it had been over a month by then, it was still horrific. 

And so Martin, now... Douglas had thought to keep him away from the worst of it. He had imagined he would let Martin stay with them for a few months, then let him go again none the wiser of what prison really does to a person. 

That seemed like something they could manage. 

He was wrong. 

Douglas eyes Martin. They’re all awake now, and it’s useless to pretend otherwise. “Did you get _any_ sleep?”

“Um, not... not a lot.” Martin looks up at Arthur and tells him, “I saw one of your, um, pets? Last night. It ran over my mattress.”

“You saw _Mr. Ratface?_ ” Despite the lingering tension of his nightmare, Arthur manages to sound hopeful. 

Martin glances at Douglas, then says, “I saw _a_ rat, yes. I don’t know if it was…” He scrunches up his face. “...a specific one.” 

“Mr. Ratface is the best! He comes really close. I think he’d be great for training, because he’s not afraid of people. I mean, he does bite, but then all animals bite if they’re scared, it’s not his fault. And if he got used to me, he wouldn’t bite me anymore.” 

Arthur jumps down from his bed, then asks Martin, earnestly, “Do you know how to build a rat cage?”

“I… no?” 

Douglas weighs in, “I might be able to whip something up.” 

“Really, Douglas?” Arthur gives him an admiring look.

Douglas considers where they are. He adds, “Although personally I wonder whether it might be inhumane to capture a famously brave and lively free-range rat such as _Mr. Ratface_.” 

Arthur’s face falls. “I suppose... He _is_ used to running around a lot... And eating everything he finds. And playing with things. He’d get bored, in a cage.” 

Martin offers, “Maybe, if he loves to play, give him things to play with? And if he loves to eat, give him the best food? And then, then you wouldn’t need a cage?” 

Arthur looks to Douglas for confirmation. 

Douglas allows, “I imagine that positive conditioning tends to work on rats, yes.” 

Arthur smiles. “That sounds great, Martin! We should try that.” 

Douglas tunes out Arthur’s and Martin’s discussion on how to go about training a rat. Instead, he gets up and shaves. Douglas’ beard grows in grey these days. He had thought to let it grow, but it makes him look old, and he can’t be _old_ in here. He can’t look weak. 

Not even for a moment. 

Douglas glances at Arthur and Martin while they discuss various rodents. Arthur _fancies_ Martin.

Douglas saw it on day one, when Arthur’s desire to help, protect, and care suddenly dialled up a hundredfold the second Martin walked into their cell. It’s gotten only worse since. 

Douglas can hardly blame Arthur for choosing someone age-appropriate. For being _human_. 

Arthur asks Martin, “Do you think rats like cheese?”

Martin takes it seriously and says, “I think so? I mean, I have always thought so, but we could ask Douglas to look for a book from the library, if you want to be sure.”

Douglas has to admit to liking Martin as well. He’s certainly been a decent enough fellow to have around. 

But still. He shouldn’t have. Douglas shouldn’t have gotten involved, and he most definitely shouldn’t _care_ , neither for Arthur’s sake or for his own. The key to getting through a prison sentence is exactly the opposite of that - only business, no relationships, no friendships, no positive feelings other than the soft golden glow of a lucrative trade gone right. _That’s_ how Douglas had intended to survive this. 

And Martin doesn’t give them a thing. Martin wasn’t a trade, he was a charitable adoption taken in out of the goodness of their hearts. 

But they saved him anyway. 

Taking Martin back from Frankie was an enormous risk and now they’ll have to face the consequences. 

This isn’t over. The only reason Frankie let Martin go is because there is nowhere to run, and they all know it. 

When the cell door opens about an hour later, Douglas can see the flash of sheer terror on Martin’s face. The whole deal about the rat was a distraction, Douglas assumes. Not even a very brilliant one, but at least Martin tried. He looks about ready to throw up now.

Douglas can feel something similar. 

He still has the improvised knife Karl gave him in case of emergency. But despite having lived quite a colourful life before this, Douglas has never actually prepared to possibly _shank_ a man in prison before. 

He was hoping he wouldn’t need to. He was banking on it, in fact. But he has also learned to never issue a challenge he is not willing to follow through upon. There are no take backs in here, there is no such thing as ‘heat of the moment’, or a genuine mistake. All of those will cost him more years, and if there is one thing Douglas is not willing to sacrifice, it is more time. 

He has already lost too much. 

They step out of the cell together and walk through the corridor. 

Douglas tells Martin, “Take my hand.” He lies, “It’s a matter of sending a message.” 

They don’t _need_ to. But Martin is terrified to be out here and it shows.

Martin nods seriously, “Okay,” and tangles their fingers as if they’re on a romantic stroll by the beach. Martin’s hand is weak in Douglas’. Small.

Douglas moves as cautiously as he can and watches their backs. He has the knife in his pocket.

Arthur only leaves them at the last possible moment, and Douglas steers Martin through the breakfast line by holding a hand to the small of his back. Douglas only lets go so they both can get food. 

They sit down, and Martin draws a sudden shaky breath. Frankie is across the room. Douglas makes certain to look Frankie straight in the eyes, and then every single one of his crew. The retribution might still come. Or it might not happen at all. 

It’s the not knowing that’s the worst. 

Arthur is behind the counter, looking at them and checking in every few seconds with an anxious look. Douglas makes a show out of eating Martin’s breakfast and stays around long enough to make it seem as if he is feeling entirely at ease, but when Frankie and his crew get up, Douglas does, too. 

Despite having been in prison for four years now, Douglas has never been in a physical fight in his life. But they don’t know that. 

He hopes.

When they walk to their cell, Frankie is there waiting for them. 

Douglas is almost relieved in some way. Public confrontations tend to have a much lower mortality rate than anything done behind closed doors. And no matter how bad this gets, he would rather have it be over and done with.

Martin is by his side, shaking like a leaf. Douglas is surprised that he hasn’t made a run for it yet. 

Douglas puts on a smile and says, “What can we do for you, Frankie?” 

There are three more men nearby that are Frankie’s, at least. More if he paid some off. Arthur is at work. Martin is going to be entirely useless if it comes down to it, Douglas assumes. And to be frank, so is he. 

So Douglas takes a gamble. He nods towards the extra muscle, and says, “Came to offer me one of yours to suck my cock, too? You _shouldn’t have_.”

Frankie seems briefly annoyed by that. 

He wants them to be scared, doesn’t he? He likes the crying and whimpering more than anything else. 

Frankie eyes Douglas, then Martin. He takes a good long moment to decide, and then says, “Not now, I think.” 

He signals his men and leaves. 

_Damn._

Douglas ushers Martin into their cell. 

Instead of letting Martin sit on own mattress - it’s not very defensible, he’s too close to the door and too close to the ground - Douglas motions for Martin to come and sit on his bed. Martin does it without question. 

This was just a warning, clearly. Intimidation 101. And despite Douglas’ best efforts to remain entirely calm, he has to admit that it is working. He can already see how this will go - either he does something himself, or it will escalate in some way or other. 

Martin slips his hand into Douglas’ and tangles their fingers again. 

Douglas looks at Martin with some surprise. There is no one here to impress. But Martin holds on and gives him a determined look. “It’s, ah... thank you? For standing up for me.” 

Douglas wants to tell him that he is not at all confident that he will be able to guarantee Martin’s safety. 

But he doesn’t say so. 

A few minutes later, Arthur stumbles in, clearly fresh out of the kitchen as he didn’t even take the time to untie his apron. “Are you all right?!”

“We’re fine,” Martin says, clearly relieved.

Douglas sighs. “We are, in fact, _splendid_.” 

He looks at _The World History of Falconry_ lying on the shelf. He had planned to hide the makeshift knife in there, because it’s too risky to constantly carry it in his pocket. It’s just as likely to be used against him as that he will get any use out of it. Or spotted by a guard and then it’s solitary again, and Douglas can’t risk that now. If he is gone, Carolyn is going to have to take Arthur and Martin out of gen pop immediately – Douglas is sure that she realises that, too. 

So he needs to act fast. 

He doesn’t stow the knife. Douglas gets up and tells Arthur, “Take Martin with you to the kitchen.” Mr. B will look out for them there, at least. 

Arthur has enough nightmares already.

It’s easy enough to ask around and locate one of Frankie’s men. Everyone has heard what happened by now. Most seem to disapprove, actually, but in a ‘that’s life’ sort of way. No one is actually going to stand up for them if it comes down to it, Douglas guesses. 

As popular as he is, no one is going to risk their life over some pills and a porn magazine. 

The man – Bob, is it? Douglas isn’t even certain – is by the phones, distracted while he’s making a call. He doesn’t immediately seem to realise that he’s in any danger. 

Douglas looks at the other callers, and then slowly pulls out the knife. He gets slow nods or glances in return, and no one challenges him. No one is going to defend _Bob_ if he goes down, either. _Good to know._

If Douglas survives this, that is.

Douglas tries to hold the knife as if he knows what he’s doing, then takes a step forward and carefully presses it against Bob’s neck. 

He’s slow to react and Douglas has the element of surprise. But regardless, Douglas can’t fight him and he knows it, so he speaks quickly, “Run to Frankie, tell him that I cornered you, and that in spite of my obviously _dastardly_ intentions, I did not assault you in any way. Can you do that?” 

Bob says, slowly, “Yeah.” 

“ _Good_.” Douglas puts the knife away, then immediately starts walking leisurely without looking back, aware that his palms are rather _sweaty_. He hopes that’ll do it. 

He goes to work.

Douglas does somewhat enjoy running the library, as decrepit as it is. It’s only a small room with dusty, mouldy books, and a ceiling vent filled with a variety of porn magazines. There’s booze in a few hollowed out books. There are small bags of pills screwed behind the light fixtures as well. But Douglas doesn’t keep his best stuff here. It’s too _expected_. 

By the time Douglas has done a few transactions – less than usual, everything that isn’t urgent is being delayed because no one is stupid enough to come in here for something they don’t absolutely need today - Frankie graces him with his presence. 

He’s alone, this time. 

“Word travels fast.” Douglas doesn’t pull his knife again. It probably won’t make a difference. He can’t actually take Frankie in a knife fight, and they both know it. 

Frankie looks at him with a considering gaze. “He said you didn’t do anything.” 

“I did not.” 

Frankie seems confused. Douglas can’t see why, as he’s playing Frankie’s own game of chicken, after all. “You could consider it to be a _statement_ , of sorts.” 

“A what?”

Douglas makes certain to put every bit of his considerably weight around here behind it as he says, “The two I have, are _mine_. I don’t care what you do to anyone else. But they are my property, and mine to use in whichever way I see fit.” 

Douglas tries to appear reasonable. “I’m merely asking for some respect, Frankie. That’s all.” 

Frankie slowly nods, then grins. “Twenty grams of Brown Sugar and I’ll leave him be. Your other one, too.” 

_Ah._ So that’s what he wanted. Clever, Douglas has to give it to him. It’s likely Frankie never even cared for Martin in the first place, but it’s all deals, in here. Value versus value. 

Douglas doesn’t have nearly that much heroin in, however. But he can negotiate. “I’m only prepared to supply my usual.” He thinks quickly. “I can, however, provide you with five today, the rest in a week.” Douglas eyes him. “You know I’m good for it.”

Frankie nods. “By dinner.”

Douglas agrees.

He works on in the library. He’s aware that most people assume that’s where his entire stash is located, and he prefers to keep it that way, so Douglas makes certain he gives off a completely different vibe as he detours to the kitchen a full two hours later. 

Martin is there, peeling potatoes. He looks deeply relieved as he sees him. “Douglas!”

“ _Martin_.” Douglas puts it on as well as he can and smiles a sleazy smile. Martin, to his credit, doesn’t seem overly disturbed by it. “I’m here for Arthur, I’m afraid.” Douglas sees Arthur and gives him a nod. 

Arthur drops everything and follows Douglas into the small refrigeration room behind the kitchen. 

They close the door behind them, and Douglas opens his jumpsuit and lowers it while Arthur kneels down in front of the fridge’s shelves – it makes a convincing picture. 

They have been caught by the guards twice already. 

Both times, they got away with it. 

Douglas pushes his pants down and leans over Arthur while he searches through the furthest bag of rice to find his screwdriver. “Martin doing okay?”

“I think so. Or well, mostly.” Arthur looks up at him as he says, “We’ve been through a whole bag of potatoes. We’re boiling them with microwave chicken bits and beans.”

“Mmm.” Douglas moans loudly enough that they can be heard if anyone is listening. And they most certainly _are_ , the kitchen is filled with inmates who need to believe that what they do on a regular basis in the fridge is entirely sex-based. Douglas consistently pays Mr. B off for this very purpose as well. 

There is no better excuse in prison, after all. 

Douglas locates his screwdriver, and starts on the screws of the air vent hidden behind the tins of pineapple. 

“Oh, _Douglas!_ ” Arthur moans happily.

Douglas is pleased by the authenticity, of course. But it is something, to see Arthur kneeling between his legs while saying things like that. He tries to ignore it. 

Douglas collects the screws in his hand to prevent them from falling down, then opens the grate, and feels for the bag taped to the top of it. “Found it.”

Arthur looks at the small bag of heroin. “Will it help?” 

Douglas sighs. “We’ll find out.” 

He returns the grate, screws it back into place, then moves the pineapple tins and pushes the screwdriver down into the bag of rice. 

They still have to ‘finish’, so Douglas puts the heroin in his pocket and stands over Arthur while making some - hopefully convincing - sounds of ecstasy. 

Douglas has always managed to keep his own erection below the ‘interested’ level when they do this, luckily. But Arthur is generally not quite as fortunate. Douglas has seen him squirm, but there’s not a lot he can do about it. Or that he _should_ do about it - it’s great for authenticity, in fact. They all believe Douglas is an entirely inconsiderate lover as he’s leaving Arthur with visible erections. 

Douglas projects a loud moan, faking that he came, and then pulls up his pants and closes his jumpsuit. 

When they step out of the fridge, Martin’s eyes go straight to them both. His mouth is opened a little in awkward surprise. Arthur goes to sit next to him to help with the potatoes, so Douglas is sure that Arthur will inform Martin that it’s all a scam, at least. 

Douglas makes a detour to the showers, then to his cell, back to the library to pick up a book, and only then goes by Frankie’s cell. He finds him on his bed. 

Douglas hands him the heroin and doesn’t wait for whatever comes next, simply says, “Martin and Arthur are my sole property, are we clear?” 

Frankie eyes him, then says, almost testingly, “Oh, _Arthur_ , that’s his name. I forgot. I remember doing _Arthur_.” He grins. "Screams a lot, that one." 

Douglas wants to hit him in the face with a force that surprises him. For a moment, he is very aware that he still has the knife in his pocket. 

He says, “We all have what’s ours.” 

Then walks off. 

Both Arthur and Martin have made it back to the cell by the time Douglas ducks back in. Arthur looks at him, and Douglas says, “I believe that was successful.” 

“Oh, brilliant!” Arthur breathes out a slow breath. 

It does not feel like a victory, exactly. 

Instead, it feels overly close. Arthur keeps looking at Douglas as if he is some wonder who managed to solve all of their problems in one fell swoop, and Martin is now taking Douglas’ hand without being asked, and Douglas never wanted any of this. 

To _pretend_ , yes. Nothing more. 

After dinner, they settle down for the night, and Douglas reminds himself that it all went well. But he can’t quite convince himself of that fact.

He wasn’t made for prison. 

And oh, many would argue that he was - Douglas is doing superbly. He made some connections in prison that he never could have established any other way, so in some sense it was an unconventional but not entirely poorly founded business decision for him. 

But there is the feeling of Martin’s weak hand in his. The sounds Arthur makes when he has a nightmare.

Douglas originally started brewing beer to have alcohol for himself. He first traded drugs with a similar purpose as well, in case the mood ever struck him. And the fact that he hasn’t attempted to achieve any sort of intoxication in the past four years is not because of any fortitude of will, it is because he is only too aware of how vulnerable he would be if he were to be an addict in here. 

But it would not be nearly as precarious as loving someone in prison. 

Douglas glances at Arthur and Martin, currently cosily sat together on Martin’s mattress and reading a mouldy book about breeding rabbits. It was the closest to rats Douglas could find in the library.

And oh, what does it matter, that he does care? What would it change if he didn’t? 

Everything, of course - but that is what he tells himself. Douglas needs to get through the days just as much as Arthur and Martin do. And if he has allowed himself get involved just a tad too much, he can blame the circumstances. 

There is nothing else, after all. 

No one else.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. (Martin)

 

 

Martin dreams, sometimes. 

They’re not like Arthur’s dreams where he makes all these upset sounds and wakes up sweaty and scared-looking. Or like Douglas’ dreams, where he never says that he had a dream at all but he seems distant in the mornings, so they know he isn’t feeling great. 

Martin’s dreams are pretty boring. He dreams about having to get up to go to school. About driving the van. About forgetting his shopping list and having to phone Mum to ask her what kind of sugar she wants. It’s only things like that, but maybe because they’re such normal dreams, every single time it hurts to wake up from them. 

Because he’s still in prison. 

Martin has been here for a month-and-a-half, now. So he knows – he knows a lot of things. 

He knows how to accept Douglas’ secret packages from Karl and hide them in his shoes. He knows how to peel potatoes by the bucket with a rusty safety peeler, and how to stand guard while Arthur steals cake. He knows how to shower in under three minutes, and how to not feel completely terrified when Mr. Ratface scutters through the cell at night. 

Martin knows how to live here now, sort of. 

He didn’t suddenly learn, or something like that. Actually, throughout all of it Martin feels like he never chose to do anything at all. Every single day he just did what he did because there was no other option _than_ to do it. 

He’s definitely not any braver than he was before. 

He still cries, sometimes. Not every night, because you can’t, like Arthur said - people can’t just cry every night for forever, it doesn’t work that way. Martin isn’t any less sad, but it’s like the sadness has sort of settled in his chest and he lives around it.

They do try to cheer him up, Arthur and Douglas.

Douglas tells him, “You know, we _are_ encouraged to study in prison. Self-improvement and all that. You could have someone send you your flight books, Carolyn will sign you a permission slip.”

But Martin knows that he can’t ever do that again, so he says, “No.” 

Arthur tells him passionately, “I could help you pass your flight tests, Martin! I’m a really good helper, you’ll see!”

But Martin says, “...It’s really very, very complicated, Arthur. You can’t help me.”

Douglas says, “No, but _I_ could.” 

And the thought that Douglas helping him would make any difference seems ridiculous – Martin already passed his theoretical exams and they can’t exactly practice anything practical in here.

But in the end, Martin gives in and calls Caitlyn. He asks her to get the books from the box under his bed in his old bedroom at Mum’s and send them to him. He says that he is bored, and that he wants to read them because he’s always loved planes. 

Caitlyn doesn’t know enough about aviation to realise that those books are very complicated and that they’re study books. Or maybe she does realise, Martin isn’t sure. 

She says yes. 

And Martin knows it’s probably not going to matter, and that he’ll never get through it all. But it’s nice to pretend for just a bit that maybe, that some day, he could get his licence. And that maybe, once he’s out of here, everything will be better than it ever was before. 

Because here are a lot of things going on, still. 

And everything isn’t good, or even okay. 

Badger tried to kill his brother with wire but he didn’t finish before a guard found them, and Badger’s man Timmy hit Douglas in the face for that, because Badger himself is in solitary. 

Douglas had a black eye for over a week. 

The next time, it was a knee to the stomach from one of Frankie’s men, and Douglas didn’t let anyone see that anything was wrong, until he was in the cell and threw up into the toilet. 

Douglas is dealing drugs even more after Frankie. He’s supplying for them now, and Martin feels really scared whenever he thinks of that. If Douglas gets caught, he will get time added to his sentence. 

Douglas says it doesn’t matter and that he’s getting a big profit out of it, but the lines on his face seem tense when he says that, as if he’s lying. He has a razorblade that he hides in the lining of his jumpsuit now. 

Arthur says that that it’s dangerous, and he frets over Douglas constantly. 

Martin tries to be extra-nice to Douglas to somehow thank him for that and for the daily stories about flying and for _all of it_ , but he’s not sure how to thank him sometimes. Douglas holds his hand often now, and Martin feels brave enough to take it when they’re alone, too, but Douglas never asks for anything more. 

Not that that… Not that Martin would do that, of course.

Martin still remembers that night in Frankie’s cell. Every time he sees Frankie, especially if it’s unexpected, Martin can feel that pressure in the back of his throat. Martin hates it. He hates that it’s still inside of his body, somehow. 

But it’s also not everything he ever feels. 

Arthur asked whether it was okay for Douglas to ‘read out loud’ again just a few days after all of it happened, and Martin hadn’t been upset by that at all, or scared. 

And Martin knows that Arthur and Douglas touch him in ways like holding his hand or arm only because then everyone knows that he’s theirs and they won’t bother him, but Martin also thinks it’s really nice. 

Martin knows what it feels like to have Arthur lean an arm over him when they’re all undressed to shower - it’s a shock of warm skin to his. Martin knows what it feels like to lean into Douglas’ side and to feel safe, for just a moment. 

And Martin has seen them… - well, he hasn’t _seen_ them, Arthur told him it’s all fake, that they just pretend - but still Martin has seen the way they disappear into the kitchen’s refrigeration room together and how they seem afterwards. 

And somehow thinking of them like _that_ isn’t at all the same at all as how Martin feels when he sees Frankie. 

Most nights, Douglas sort of leans back in his bed and that means that Martin can go sit there and use the light of Douglas’ little lamp to read by. Arthur likes to be there, too. Often he crawls onto Douglas’ bed as well to read along a bit from Martin’s book, or to talk. 

Sometimes, Arthur will put his head onto Martin’s shoulder as he gets tired. Or Douglas will move his legs so that they’re leaning against Martin’s. And it’s like it doesn’t even matter what they talk about then, it’s just warm and comfortable and Martin feels almost a little drunk. Drunk on touching. 

It’s not like he wants sex. Martin doesn’t want his mouth to be used like that, ever again. And the other thing, no, he can’t - the thought alone is enough to make him feel a little sick. 

But he does think of... things. Sometimes. Secretly. 

He tries not to think about it too much. 

Martin doesn’t have an official job. His prison sentence is too short for anyone to train him so they just didn’t assign him one. But he spends nearly every day in the kitchen with Arthur.

It’s not _fun_ , exactly. They do a lot of scrubbing floors and counters and using the big machine that washes the trays and plates. The floor is all sticky and it smells odd in there, plus they have to wear aprons and hairnets. 

But it’s better than being on his own. 

Martin is getting to know the people who work there, too. Mr. B is in charge of the kitchen, but that mainly means that he shouts a lot and tells them all what to do. He doesn’t seem to know how to actually cook anything. 

Fat Willy – Martin feels awkward about calling him 'fat' until Willy tells him it’s because there used to be another Willy who was skinny but he hung himself in his cell a few years ago, and now he’s just gotten used to the name – does most of the actual work of running the kitchen. 

But there’s also Jalal and Jinhai – Mr. B calls Jinhai ‘the Chinaman’ which Martin is pretty sure is very racist – Damon and Hakeem, and Ennis, who Martin likes until he says he’s in prison because he murdered his baby sister when he was sixteen, and then it’s a little harder to be friends. 

It takes a lot of food to feed so many people three times a day. A lot of effort, too. Martin thinks that’s why no one ever seems to be annoyed or upset that he’s even there. 

Of course, he’s under Douglas’ protection, and Douglas pays Mr. B every week. Martin doesn’t know why. But sometimes, he walks into the kitchen to see someone scrubbing blood off the counter. Or the stove smells a bit burned. One time, Arthur found a human tooth while sweeping the floor. No one knew where it came from. 

So Martin hasn’t actually become a better cook – they just boil things and microwave other things, they don’t _cook_ any meals really – but he’s gotten really good at not seeing things. Like how when Fat Willy drops some rolls onto the floor, he just picks them up and puts them back. Or how Mr. B takes swigs from his ‘special bottle’ every few minutes, and by the afternoon he’s usually snoring next to the potatoes. 

But there are nice moments, too. Jalal and Hakeem pray towards Mecca in the kitchen every day. Damon explains to Martin what his gang tattoos are about. Fat Willy talks about how to make great soup, and burgers, and how he wants to become a chef when he gets out. 

Martin still feels scared a lot, though.

When he was growing up, he was scared of Simon, and of the neighbour’s dog, and of about half of his class and his teacher and so, so many things. And now, knowing that all of the things to be afraid of in his life are actually dangerous definitely makes it worse, but being afraid also feels familiar. 

Martin has _always_ been careful. He has always looked three times before crossing a road and double and triple-checked that he has his wallet on him. So now, Martin never lingers in the corridors, or goes anywhere on his own at all. He never uses the bathrooms in public. He hides drugs and checks again and again that they are exactly where Douglas told him to hide them. 

He’s always been scared, Martin tells himself. This isn’t any different. 

Some weeks after Martin first called Caitlyn, his books finally arrive.

Mrs. Knapp-Shappey carries in a big box and says, “It’s Christmas, Martin!” 

Martin lets out a squeak. He jumps up, accepts the box saying, “’Thank you, thank, thank you, Mrs. Knapp-Shappey!” He puts it down on his mattress and opens it as fast as he can. 

“Are those your books about flying, Martin?” Arthur asks. 

“Yes! Yes, they’re... Yes!” The box has already been opened to check for drugs and such, but it doesn’t matter. Martin takes out book after book. It’s _Air Law and Meteorology_ , _Human Performance and Limitations_ , _Operational Procedures_ , _Gas Turbine Engines_ , _Advanced Aerodynamics_ , _Flight Performance and Planning_ , _Mental Arithmetic for Pilots_ , and more, so much more. 

Caitlyn sent him _all of them_. It’s almost dizzying how much Martin wants to read them again. 

Martin is putting the books on his mattress, when sees a post-it note stuck to one. It says, in Caitlyn’s hasty handwriting, “ _Hope this’ll help. Keep it up, I’m sure you’ll be a pilot some day. Love, Caitlyn_.” 

Oh. Martin has to swallow away some tears. 

He puts the post-it aside very, very carefully, and then looks up. Arthur is smiling widely at him. Douglas is looking at him with a pleased expression, and Mrs. Knapp-Shappey says, “Well, enjoy.” 

Martin says, “I _will!_ ” with absolute certainty. 

He can hear her brief laugh as she leaves. 

Martin shows every single book to Douglas and Arthur. By now most of the books are around a decade old and he can’t afford to buy the newer editions, but they are in great shape. Martin has always been very good with his books. 

Of course, there really is nowhere in the cell to put them, but Douglas says, “You can pile them under my bed at night?” 

Martin nods at him, then takes the first book he sees - _Mental Arithmetic for Pilots_ , and leafs through it. Oh, he has missed this! 

He leans against the wall and reads. 

Martin reads for the rest of the afternoon. Arthur and Douglas drag him away for dinner, but then he comes straight back. They all settle onto Douglas’ bed so Martin has enough light to read by, and Arthur asks questions about what ailerons are and how planes stay in the sky. 

By the time Martin and Douglas have finished replying, it’s after midnight. Douglas tells them to go to sleep and that the books will still be there in the morning. 

He sounds happy about it, though. 

So is Martin. 

He organises the books according to size and topic, pushes them under Douglas’ bed, and then lies down on his mattress to sleep. 

For a while, all Martin can think of is flight protocols. The words are still dancing before his eyes. 

But then, Martin can hear Arthur trying to be sneaky but actually making quite a bit of noise as he opens his press studs. 

Because of the flight books, Douglas didn’t read out loud tonight. So Arthur didn’t... Martin only realises that now. He listens to Arthur taking his jumpsuit off further, then the snap of the elastic of his pants as he pushes them down. 

Martin isn’t sure whether he should speak up and say something. Should he tell Arthur that he’s awake, too? Should he say something so Douglas can read out loud and it doesn’t have to be strange? But then, Arthur doesn’t _sound_ as if he’s having trouble with doing this while people can hear him anymore. 

Martin can feel his cheeks start to burn a little. 

After a moment, Martin awkwardly turns away and shifts on his mattress so he can only hear Arthur with one ear. 

Then, he hears Douglas move in his bed. Douglas lies on his side, and then there is the movement of _his_ hand as well. Martin thinks for a moment that maybe he imagined it, but then he can hear Douglas open his jumpsuit, too. 

Martin tries not to listen to either of them, but then he also sort of tries to listen very hard. 

Arthur lets out a little moan – he’s always terrible at staying quiet while he does this. 

Douglas breathes a heavy breath in return. 

Martin can hear _them_ , and his cheeks are burning and he’s sort of sweating and it’s hard to lie perfectly still, especially because he’s... He presses a hand between his legs to hold it down. 

He can hear the soft slaps of Arthur’s hand. He can hear the rustle of Douglas’ blanket. 

Martin’s finger starts rubbing a small patch of fabric on his jumpsuit. He feels like he’s doing something sort of wrong, because they might not know that he’s listening. Or they might not want him to, and therefore he shouldn’t. But it feels so good. 

Martin pulls his knees up a bit more and listens for Arthur. Has it gotten quieter? He can’t hear Douglas. What if Douglas says something? What if they’re both listening to _him_ right now? 

The idea doesn’t help to make him want it less. 

Martin holds the palm of his hand over his crotch, then squeezes it, slowly. 

Arthur is moving his hand _for sure_. It sounds like he is lying on his back and doing it just like that. 

Martin doesn’t push his covers off, he can’t. But he opens one press stud. The sound is audible in the almost-silence. 

Douglas moves a little. 

Martin opens another button. 

And then he sticks his hand under the fabric of his jumpsuit, onto his shirt. He traces his hand over his belly, under the elastic of his pants, and then onto his hot and sweaty skin. 

He swallows as he hears Arthur’s hand go _fast_. 

Normally Martin would just pull his penis out, lie on his back, and move his hand back and forth really quickly just the way Arthur is doing. But he can’t do that here. Somehow, that feels too exposed. But Martin doesn’t want to stop, either. He closes his eyes and listens to Arthur’s frantic rubbing, and then touches his own penis. It rises to his hand. 

Arthur says, “Oooh!” 

He has finished. There’s a rustle of plastic when he grabs his tissues. 

Martin lowers his hand and strokes his penis all the way to the tip. He’s wet there. 

He shifts on his mattress and opens his legs a bit more, so there’s more space for his hand to move. But the sheet catches his hand just when he moves, so there’s a whoosh, and then Douglas turns around in bed, too. Martin tenses and holds still. 

Douglas pushes his covers off. 

Martin moves his hand over his penis and tries to be slow and careful, but he can hear himself. He is doing it really, really quietly, but he can’t be perfectly still. It’s a small, rhythmic rustle under the sheet. 

Douglas’ hand is moving, too. His tempo is slower. 

Arthur isn’t asleep yet, either - Martin can hear it from his breathing. He’s probably listening to them right now. 

Martin stops his hand. They all know, don’t they? They _know_ what he’s doing right now. His whole body seems to pulse along with his penis, even though he stopped holding it. It feels great and also sort of miserable. 

Douglas’ hand has sped up now. Martin bites his lip hearing it. He wants to see it. He wants to know what Douglas looks like. He wants to touch him and... 

Martin risks another tentative touch with only his fingertips. It’s so good he can feel goose bumps trail over his legs. He breathes out a little sigh. 

Douglas probably heard that. 

Martin’s hand feels awkward, and he can’t reach that well, but the little strokes he can give himself seem like they’re even better somehow. He can feel a wave of arousal at every single one. 

He can feel the slippery sweat in the hollows of his knees. 

Douglas suddenly grabs something – a tissue. He groans softly as he’s coming and coming and Martin feels like it burns through him, _knowing_ that. Douglas is so close to him. 

He feels as if every stroke now is almost making him come, too. But if he does, he’ll come all over his pants like this and he won’t be able to hide it. He knows he needs a tissue, too, only to reach them he’d have to turn around and look for one and open the package and then they’d _definitely_ know. Martin feels stuck, because he doesn’t want that, but at the same time he can’t stop. 

He’s tightening the muscles in his legs, holding back. But he’s so hard. 

At the last moment, he pushes his other hand in there, too, in between the fabric of his jumpsuit and under the elastic of his pants. He holds it around the wet tip of his penis, and then he’s coming wet and warm into his palm. 

Martin tries to catch it all and not make a sound, even though it feels so good. 

Then he carefully pulls first his one hand, then the other, from between his clothes and from under the sheet. 

Martin turns on his mattress with as little noise as he can manage but the plastic creaks and his sheets make a low rush as he moves his legs. He listens. Neither Douglas nor Arthur are making any noise, but they don’t sound asleep, either. Arthur isn’t snoring yet. 

Martin looks for his tissues. The package crinkles in his hand when he opens it. With a stab of shame, Martin cleans his hand. 

Martin wants to talk to them and say sorry. He really, really wants to babble and say all sorts of things, but he knows that he shouldn’t. It’s better if they all pretend this never happened. 

He feels guilty. And also sort of strangely aroused still.

But he does fall asleep very fast after that.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. (Arthur)

 

 

Arthur wakes up and immediately excitement rushes all the way to his toes and back up into his stomach. 

He knows _exactly_ what day today is. 

Arthur smiles really, really hard and looks over at Martin, as he always does first thing in the morning. Only, today there’s a long string of paper planes hanging between the bunk bed and the sink. Arthur looks at them, and then sees Martin smiling at him. Martin mouths, “Happy Birthday!”

Arthur pushes his covers off and jumps off the bed – careful not to hit the planes. Arthur kneels down onto Martin’s mattress and Martin laughs, reaches out his arms and holds him and kind of rocks him back and forth while he asks, quietly, “Do you like them?”

Arthur looks at the planes. “They’re _brilliant!_ ” 

Douglas is awake, too. He says, “Well, if it isn’t our birthday boy.”

Arthur grins, gets over to the bed and hugs Douglas, too. He’s still warm from sleeping. “I’m twenty- _seven!!!_ ”

“Yes, twenty-seven whole years of being alive, _quite_ the accomplishment.” 

Arthur smiles in Douglas’ arms. Then he lets go and ducks under the decorations to brush his teeth, because they have a system now so all of them can be ready on time in the mornings. Arthur is always first. 

He gets to the kitchen before the breakfast starts. Jalal gives him a fist-bump, and Damon says, “Yo, Arthur my man - have a good day, yeah?” 

Arthur smiles at them. “I will!” 

Fat Willy gives him a card made from the back of a package of pasta. It says ‘Happy Birtday’ and it’s signed by everyone who works in the kitchen. Arthur knows that there’s supposed to be an ‘h’ in ‘birthday’ – Mrs. Dimont taught him that - but he doesn’t say so. He just says thank you, and that he’ll hang the card up in his cell. 

Mr. B passes around a bottle of something to toast to his health. It makes Arthur’s nose burn, but he feels really cheery throughout serving everyone porridge. He does drop a few things, but people don’t seem to mind. 

After breakfast, Arthur finds Douglas and Martin, tangles his fingers with Martin’s, and they walk outside.

He says, ‘It’s a _great_ day today, isn’t it?” 

Arthur can’t believe his birthday was on a Saturday, too. He’s so lucky. There’s no NA today - the counsellor was fired last week after she was caught with cocaine in her bra - but it’s okay, all the rest is still on. 

“Well, it’s a tad cloudy,” Douglas says. 

“I’d give it an eight point nine for flying conditions,” Martin adds. 

“Do you now?” Douglas pauses. “Care to explain your rating system?” 

Martin launches into a long talk about cloud structures, and Arthur goes to join the basketball game. It’s great fun - he even almost scores once. 

Then Jay tries to show him how to bounce the ball and defend it. Jay’s in a good mood today because Douglas gave him some uppers. He’s talking really fast, too. They run back and forth until Arthur’s all out of breath, and even then Jay keeps on going. 

When they get back to the cell, Arthur has to take his jumpsuit off and wash by the sink because he got so sweaty. 

Douglas goes to work, and when Arthur’s towelling off his chest, he can see Martin look at him from Douglas’ bed, then quickly look away and blush. 

Arthur smiles. “It’s okay. I don’t mind if you look at me, Martin.” It’s true. He doesn’t. 

“It’s just…” Martin’s face squishes little, as if he’s not sure about what he’s going to say. “I was thinking… When I hug you, doesn’t it hurt?” Martin looks at Arthur’s scars. 

“No, not most of the time,” Arthur says. “I mean, they still hurt a little, sometimes. But it’s not really pain. It’s like the memory of pain.” 

Martin nods. He’s smart like that - he always understands what Arthur tries to say. 

Martin’s still looking at his back, too. Maybe he’s curious about what they feel like. “Do you want to touch?” Arthur steps closer, so Martin can reach. 

“I… um. Okay?” Martin slowly reaches out his hand. 

He touches Arthur’s back, over the rough, scarred bits. Martin’s fingers brush over Arthur’s skin really carefully. It feels a bit like a tickle. Arthur turns around so Martin can see the ones up front, too. There are scars all the way from Arthur’s back, over his side, to the top of his leg. Martin’s fingers follow them. He whispers, “Was it horrible?”

“Yes.” Arthur remembers. “Or well, it was because I thought I was going to die. But people have a _lot_ of blood inside of them, though. I learned that.” 

Martin’s hand stops touching him. He seems so sad. 

“It’s okay, I didn’t die! And it’s just scars, now.” Arthur doesn’t want to make Martin feel bad. He likes him _so much_. 

Martin has really pretty lips. Arthur wants to kiss him, but maybe Martin doesn’t want that. Arthur can’t be sure. And he _never_ wants to do something that Martin doesn’t want. So Arthur doesn’t kiss him but, after a moment, he takes Martin’s hand, lifts it up, and kisses Martin’s knuckles. 

Martin swallows. “I… oh!” 

He lets go. 

Martin liked that, Arthur thinks. He’s smiling again, at least. 

Arthur gets dressed to go work in the kitchen, and Martin comes with him. 

The feeling of Martin touching him like that and being sad for him stays with him. Arthur thinks about it all through microwaving huge packets of rice and rinsing off frozen carrots.

Martin leaves after a while, finds Douglas, and they come in for dinner together holding hands. Arthur smiles at them. 

Arthur serves the food, and then after that’s done and he’s in the middle of loading the big dishwasher machine, Mum comes by to say, “Arthur Shappey, you’re done here for today.” 

When it’s just the two of them walking, she says, “Happy Birthday, dear.” And “There is a surprise waiting for you. ...Or two of them.”

“Yes, Mum!” Arthur already kind of knows what it will be, because he also turned twenty-five and twenty-six in prison. 

He walks along with Mum through the guard doors, out of the prison part, and into the corridor where they all have their offices. Arthur follows Mum to the tiny one that says, “Mrs. Knapp-Shappey”. 

The first year, Mum bought him a remote-controlled car and he played with it all evening.

Last year, she snuck in Snoopadoop for him. 

And this year, when Mum asked him what he wanted, Arthur said... 

The door opens, and Martin and Douglas are there, shouting, “ _Surprise!_ ” They throw confetti at him and blow on party horns. 

Arthur smiles so hard he feels like he’ll break in two. “I LOVE those!” 

Martin gives him his party horn and Arthur blows it, and then Douglas takes a handful of confetti and rubs it into Arthur’s hair. Arthur laughs and runs around the room. There is a cake, and ice-cream, and there are several presents on Mum’s desk. One of them is really big.

Arthur opens the big one first, of course. It’s like, the law. 

It’s a cardboard box, with little things taped to the inside of it. Like a hamster wheel, toilet paper rolls, and a small ball. Martin explains, “We made a playground for Mr. Ratface.” 

That’s a great idea! “Thank you!”

Douglas gives him a square package that feels like it’s a book. Arthur opens it, and it’s _White Fang_. “That’s the only book I’ve ever read the whole way through,” Arthur tells Martin. “Twice!” 

From Mum, Arthur gets an extra-special new calendar. It’s the kind that he can pull a page off every day, and it gets smaller as the year goes on. It starts with today’s date. 

Arthur already loves the gift a lot, but then Mum says, “Look at how many days it has, Arthur.” 

Arthur looks through it all the way to the end. The last page says “24th of January.” That’s it. 

It’s a very strange calendar if it doesn’t go all the way through the year, and Arthur is about to say so, when Douglas says, “ _You did it_.” He sounds strange.

Martin asks, “Did what?” 

Mum says, “Finally, yes. His appeal passed.” She looks at him. “That’s the date you’ll be getting out of prison, Arthur.” 

“Oh.” Arthur can feel his breath get trapped in his chest when he thinks about that. 

He is counting in his head while Douglas says, still with something odd in his voice, “Seven and a half months.” 

“Two hundred and thirty-eight days to be exact. And also, Douglas?” 

Douglas looks at Mum. 

“Consider that to be the release date for both of you.” 

Douglas gets really quiet, and then nods and says, “…I see.” 

And then Arthur _has_ to hug Mum, and then Douglas, and then Martin, and then they’re all kind of crying a little. 

Then they have to start eating the ice-cream, too, because it’s melting onto Mum’s desk. Arthur piles his scoops high into a bowl. Mum got him all the best kinds – vanilla and chocolate and pistachio and cookie dough. 

Arthur eats his ice-cream and looks around the small office, at the book and the calendar and the playground for Mr. Ratface. He sees Mum’s quiet happiness in her eyes, and the way Douglas is immediately trying the cake, and how Martin looks at him with a small, secret smile. Arthur feels so rich and wonderful. So _lucky_. He announces, “This is the best birthday ever!” 

Mum says, “Arthur, dear, it’s four of us in my office.”

“…in _prison_ ,” Douglas adds.

“No, this is it. The best birthday out of my whole life.” It’s even better than the time Arthur turned twenty-one and played crazy golf. Or the time he turned seventeen and got to ride a real horse.

“Why?” Martin asks.

“Because you’re all my _very favourite_ people.” They really are. The best ever!

Martin smiles, and Mum does too. Her eyes are still a bit shiny. 

Douglas says, “I suppose one can’t argue with that.” And Arthur knows he feels it, too. 

Mum has brought some pineapple juice for Arthur and wine for Douglas, Martin, and herself, and they have a toast. The first one is to Arthur’s birthday. The second toast is to them getting out in two hundred and thirty-eight days. The third is for Martin getting out in twenty-five days. 

And then there’s one to Mum being brilliant, and to Mr. Ratface being brilliant, and to ice-cream being brilliant - they’re all laughing by then. It’s wonderful. 

They stay in Mum’s office until after midnight. 

Mum takes them back then, saying, “Now be quiet, sleep, and for the love of God, don’t tell anyone I let you drink in my office for half of the night!” 

“Oh, heaven forbid. You could end up corrupting us, Carolyn.” Douglas looks at Martin and says, “All three of us _incorrigible criminals_.”

For some reason that makes Mum laugh while she opens the cell for them. 

Arthur hugs Mum one last time. “Thank you, Mum.”

Martin is still a bit afraid of Mum normally, but he’s had enough to drink that that doesn’t matter, because Martin says, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Knapp-Shappey.” 

Douglas says, “Night, Carolyn.” 

And the door shuts.

Douglas turns his reading light on, and Arthur takes his turn brushing his teeth, and then crawls up to his bed and lies down. It’s late, but he doesn’t feel sleepy yet. Maybe it’s because he’s full of cake and ice cream and pineapple juice, but he feels bouncy, still. He’s not properly ready to go to sleep. 

Arthur wonders if Douglas would want to read out loud, tonight. But maybe he’s too tired. 

Arthur looks down at Douglas, who meets his eye and says, “Now, to end the evening… Care to hear a story, Arthur?” 

“Yes!” That’s exactly what he would like. 

“Any specific requests?” Douglas gets into his bed and settles under the covers. Martin is already on his mattress. 

“Um...” Arthur isn’t sure what to say. Mainly, he loves to listen to Douglas’ voice, so anything Douglas says will be sexy. 

“I’m assuming you are looking for something on the, let’s say, _masturbatory_ side?” 

Arthur can hear Martin’s little inhale at that, and he says, quickly, “Yes, please! Douglas.” He adds, “I would _really_ like that.”

Douglas laughs a little. It’s a warm laugh, like he’s smiling in some private way. Just hearing it already makes something feel hot in Arthur’s belly. “For the birthday boy, then.”

Arthur looks over the side of his bed to see Martin, but even with Douglas’ light on, Martin is just a shape under the covers. Arthur can’t see him well enough to see his face. He asks, “Would that be okay, Martin?” 

“Yes! That’s… yes!” Martin’s voice is a little high. 

Arthur smiles. He can see a smile on Douglas’ face, too. Douglas glances at him, then takes a breath and turns his forehead light off. Arthur can feel a shiver go through him. That means that Douglas will do it, too. 

The dark immediately feels different. As if anything could happen. 

Douglas says, “Do you have something in mind, Arthur?” 

Arthur does. He has _a lot_ of things he can think about he’d like. Like kissing Martin. Or crawling into Douglas’ bed. 

“Do you want me to tell you about a one-night stand I had once? It was Sicily, 1987. _Sylvia._ She didn’t speak a word of English, but the curve of her back was _phenomenal_...” 

Arthur listens to the tone of Douglas’ voice along with the words. Douglas sounds as if he is telling that story to himself, and as if _he_ thinks it’s sexy, and that’s really what makes it special. 

“... long hair, luscious lips, and full, gorgeous breasts.” 

Arthur’s penis is already getting hard - it’s pushing his jumpsuit up. He kicks the blanket off and puts a hand over it while he listens.

“...can remember mouthing her neck, and then lower, opening her blouse and feeling the edge of her bra. Then seeing her breasts, stroking my thumbs over her nipples to make her gasp...” 

Arthur can hear the desire in Douglas’ voice and it makes his whole body feel tingly and wonderful. He opens the press studs of his jumpsuit and pushes his pants down, then looks over at Martin. Arthur can’t see him or hear him, but he wishes that he did. He wants to know what Martin is feeling, too. 

“...sucking her nipples until the fabric of her panties was soaked. Hearing her little gasps and moans.” 

Douglas stops there for a moment, right when Arthur was going to put his hand over his penis. It’s like Douglas _knows_. He does it anyway.

“Does that do it for you, Arthur?” 

Arthur can feel a long shiver at hearing his own name. It sounds so different when Douglas says it like this. As if he’s something warm and delicious. 

Arthur is ready to say that yes, yes it does - everything he needs to say to make Douglas keep on going - when Douglas asks, “Or would you prefer a story with someone of the male persuasion?” 

Arthur stills. Whatever he says, Douglas won’t be angry, he thinks. They’ve never talked about it. But if they had, Arthur would have told him that, “I like both. I like girls - women, and boys, too.” 

Now Arthur feels warm in a whole different way. He can feel a happiness bounce through him that’s not just because he is excited. Douglas wanted to know whether he would like that. Douglas _asked_ him!

Douglas asks, carefully, “Martin?” 

“I, ah, that’s... Whatever you like, Arthur. It’s your birthday.” Martin sounds a bit nervous, but not upset, either. “It’s okay. For me. I, that’s, a man... Yes!” 

Arthur says, while touching himself, “Thank you, Martin.” 

He wonders if Martin’s name sounds different when he says it now, too. _Martin_. Or _Douglas_ – Arthur wants to say it. He wants to say their names while he does this, not just in his mind but out loud. He wants to tell them how pretty they are, and how wonderful. And how badly he wishes he could touch them. 

Douglas says, “Let’s replace lovely Sylvia sitting over you with a male specimen then. Naked, I’d say - we don’t need to lose time with undressing him.” He pauses. “Now, what are we looking at… The stubble on his square jaw? The sensitive eyes, telling you he wants you and you alone? The broad shoulders, the small, pink nipples, the expanse of chest, his ribs and stomach… Want to run your hand over there?”

Arthur says, “Yes!” before he thinks that maybe he wasn’t meant to answer. 

Douglas laughs again, that soft laugh. “Well then, _do_ give that a go. You’re feeling that stomach, the warmth of his skin, you’re following that trail of hairs _all the way down_ with your hand.” 

Arthur realises that he can hear Douglas touching himself. Arthur squeezes his penis because he’s already close, and he doesn’t want this to be over yet, not at all. It’s the best thing that has _ever_ happened. 

Douglas goes on, “I imagine he’s already hard for you, isn’t he? Oh, he would be. You can see his cock already _leaking_ a bit at just the thought of it.” 

“ _Ah_ ,” that was Martin. _Martin_ let out a little moan at that. 

Arthur strokes himself and says, “Yes, Martin!” on purpose this time. 

Martin makes a soft sound in reply.

“Hmm, let’s touch that, too. Take that cock in your hand and rub your thumb over the head, spread it around a bit. He’s gasping at that. He loves it, I’d say.” 

Arthur is trying hard not to come, but Douglas’ voice and the things he’s saying make it _so_ difficult. He feels that if he would stop touching himself, he probably would come like that, too, just without anything. So he does keep on stroking himself slowly. 

“You’re moving your hand back and forth, jerking him off. That what you want, Arthur?” 

“Yes!” It’s _very much_ what Arthur wants. 

“Martin? Want me to go on?” Douglas sounds heavy, as he speaks. He’s touching himself, too, Arthur knows it. And even though he can’t see anything in the dark, he leans over his bed to look at Douglas while he touches himself. 

Martin says, in a really small voice, “Yes. Please.” 

Douglas says, “He’s near to coming, you can feel it. See it in his face. And you speed it up for him, make it _extra_ -good…”

Martin says, “Oh!” They can hear him come, the sound of his hand and his breaths. 

“Hmm, _yes_ ,” Douglas comments. 

Arthur is _twitching_ with how close he is. He can hear Douglas move his hand back and forth fast. 

Douglas asks, “Arthur, is he coming for you? All over you?” 

And Arthur can’t hold back any more. “Yes!” Arthur comes, his whole body tingles as his come sprays over his hand, again and again. 

Arthur can barely breathe with how good it is, especially as Douglas hums approvingly, “Hmm.” And then makes a little groan when he starts coming, too. 

“Douglas…” Arthur is still weakly spurting over his wrist as he says that. Somehow it’s even better while he’s talking to Douglas. 

Oh, that was _brilliant_. Amazing. 

He stops.

Arthur takes a couple of breaths, and then finds a tissue to clean up. He can hear Douglas and Martin do the same, and he says, “Thank you, Douglas!”

Douglas sounds amused. “You’re welcome.”

Arthur smiles, and Martin says, “Good night.”

“Good night!” It really was _the very best birthday_ Arthur has ever had. 

He’s sure of it.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. (Douglas)

 

 

Morning arrives with the daily thump signifying Arthur’s descent from the top bunk. “Good morning, Douglas! Good morning, Martin!” 

Douglas blinks his eyes open. There are paper planes still dancing in the space between the bunk bed and the sink.

Martin winces and groans something unintelligible from his position on the ground. 

Arthur still has confetti in his hair. 

Douglas remembers what happened last night, how could he not - he wasn’t even remotely drunk. He held the same plastic cup of wine in his hand all night and occasionally poured some down the drain while acting appropriately _jolly_. He is not entirely sure why he lied. Habit, maybe. 

Martin did drink. He acted just a bit looser and more expressive than he otherwise would. A little less anxious. Arthur wasn’t drunk, at least. Arthur said all he did without the influence of alcohol. 

But Douglas started it, and the guilt weights heavy this morning. 

Arthur starts to brush his teeth, and Douglas is relieved that he does not need to look either of them in the eye just yet. 

He is fully aware that he manipulated the situation last night. Douglas has no business doing these things, _imagining_ these things. He was straining to hear Arthur, who just turned _twenty-seven_. He shouldn’t. Not like this. Not here. 

Not Arthur, who has suffered too much already. 

And not Martin, either. Douglas glances at him - Martin seems a bit worse for wear, he is squinting and clearly has a headache, but at least he doesn’t seem to be overly traumatised. 

Douglas can’t do this. He can’t ever do this again, because Arthur and Martin are both depending on him. 

Love isn’t free, here. 

If it’s even that - love. Douglas watches Arthur and briefly meets his eyes in the small, foggy mirror. He is flattering himself in thinking it even possibly might be. _Protection_ , that’s all Douglas can manage, and even then only by the skin of his teeth. By lying and impressing, by desperately keeping up appearances and trading drugs for a reputation because he has no other choice.

Martin dutifully starts to take down the birthday decorations. 

They’re against regulations, and if there’s a fussy guard on duty they might get in trouble for it. 

Douglas smuggled the paper in for him, and together they folded paper planes for Arthur in the library. Martin stayed awake until Arthur was snoring and hung them up in the middle of the night while Douglas guided him with his light. 

It was worth it to see Arthur’s smile. 

“Oh no, I have confetti in my hair!” 

Arthur has finally noticed. He tries to shake it out.

Martin puts the decorations aside and says, “I can pick it out, if you want?” He starts doing so.

Douglas sighs. “As thrilling as it is to watch the two of you _groom_ each other, could I have a turn at the loo?” 

They move to Martin’s mattress. Douglas discreetly collects a tissue from yesterday and throws it into the loo. He can see similar tissues by Martin’s bed. 

Douglas once had an ex say that he got off on the sound of his own voice - he certainly did last night. But he knows that he has started something now that can’t be taken back easily, especially with Arthur confirming that he is into men. Douglas has made this _personal_. He had wanted it to be. 

But that does not mean that it was wise. 

Martin still looks pale. Douglas says, “I’ve got ibuprofen, if you want.” 

“You do? Oh, could I?” 

Martin looks so grateful that Douglas can barely look at him. He takes the pills out of the spine of _Pottery in Ancient Ephesus_ and hands him two. “They’re here if you need more.” 

Arthur is trying to be subdued in reference to Martin’s headache, but he still manages to sound overly loud when he says, “It really was the best birthday ever, Douglas!”

Douglas gives him a wry smile. 

Arthur says, “And I was thinking, next year we can all have a party at Mum’s house!” 

Douglas feels a brief moment of confusion, but Arthur’s entirely right, of course. They _won’t_ be here in a year’s time. Carolyn managed to get both their sentences accepted as served at less than half of the time. Douglas had hoped for it, certainly. But he had known enough not to count on it. 

Martin asks Arthur, “Do you live close to Fitton?” 

“Yes! Do you know Fitton Park?”

They’re already running late and it’s a shower day, so Douglas skips shaving for the moment and follows them out as soon as the door opens. 

They’re still talking. 

“...not far from the airfield, is it? I’ve flown over it.” 

Martin sounds as if he is in fact planning to attend Arthur’s birthday party twelve months from now. 

Douglas can’t afford to think that far ahead. He can’t allow himself to, because as soon as he starts to plan for his release, his head won’t be here anymore. He has seen it happen to other inmates once they had their release dates. He can’t risk starting to think as if he’ll be out for sure. 

But the thought is a rather pleasant one regardless - Douglas _could_ join them for this fictional party. He could be there in his own clothes, driving his own car, buying Arthur some extravagant present. Douglas allows himself the brief fantasy of seeing the look on Arthur’s face if he would give him a puppy, or a pony, or a trip to Italy. 

The idea of freedom seems too good to be true. 

And so is the fantasy itself, of course. These friendships don’t last outside of prison. They are radically different people, and this is the only thing that binds them. Douglas suspects they won’t see each other even _once_ after they’re out. 

They walk into the shower room. 

They have changed tactics when it comes to showering after the Frankie saga. Douglas now stands guard by the two of them fully dressed while they shower, and then they do the same for him. 

It means that he watches them both undress. Douglas is entirely familiar with the pale lines of Martin’s skinny back and the small curves of his arse by now. Douglas knows Arthur - he has seen him so often it feels as if he is part of him. As if every scar of Arthur’s is one of his, too. 

Mingo sidles up to him, follows his look, and starts touching himself. “Good view, that.”

“Leave, Mingo.” Douglas isn’t in the mood to deal with him. 

He needs to watch his back constantly these days. 

Frankie has proven difficult to shake. So are M.C. and his crew, of course. Badger got out of solitary and had an axe to grind with him as well, although Douglas argued that he could hardly be held accountable for a guard walking in on attempted murder - that’s just poor planning. 

Regardless, business has been rather more risky than he would like it to be. 

Douglas has a turn at showering, does the usual breakfast song-and-dance with Martin, and as Martin joins Arthur in the kitchen to help with the clean-up, Douglas sets to work. 

He tours by the library and finds some of the oxy in the light fixtures. He hides it in the _English–Japanese dictionary, first edition 1956_ , and then takes a little walk to Jeremy’s cell, where he gives the book to his cellmate Shareed. 

Then it’s on to see Karl by the guard station for a small bag of shrooms – special delivery for Redbird. Douglas normally wouldn’t even bother to trade those as they’re hard to get and the profit margin is small, but Redbird’s a good sort, really. Serving life for running over two kids while high. 

Douglas leaves them in their improvised church. Behind the wood of the doorframe there is a small space just big enough to stash it.

Then it’s back to the library and on to the laundry room to deliver a variety of porn magazines to M.C.’s crew – Douglas is at least a welcome guest there. 

By noon, he’s heading back towards the library and rather wishing for a nap. 

It used to be a challenge, smuggling. Douglas always loved the rush of _getting away with it_. 

But now, he occasionally considers what his life might have been like if he didn’t. He could have been a doctor, bored and rich in a private practise somewhere. Or he could have been a pilot of the type that Martin seems to idolise, keeping to the rules above all else. 

The truth is that commercial airline flying is boring, of course. Mind-numbingly so. Douglas originally chose it because _it looked cool_. It’s only once the thrill wore off that he wanted something more.

He wonders whether he could do without now. 

Martin is in the library, half-hidden behind the back bookshelf. 

“You shouldn’t be in here alone.” Douglas says it, already aware that he can’t make Martin feel any more anxious than he already is.

“I know! I know that, but I saw, um, in the hall, so…”

So he ducked in here to wait for him. Douglas nods and sinks down onto the only comfortable chair in this place. It’s worn and sagging in places, but he had Arthur drag it in here for him. Also, it has weed in the lining, but no one knows that. 

Douglas presses his hand to his forehead. Maybe he could use an ibuprofen as well. Or something stronger. Douglas has never tried his supplies himself, but at times like these he feels like he’d welcome the distraction. 

Martin glances at him. “Are you all right?”

“I am more than _all right_. I am a superb and glorious drug lord, Martin.”

Martin smiles at that. 

If Frankie is on the prowl like Martin said, then he is likely to find them in here eventually. He has been implying that if Douglas doesn’t get him an ever-growing quantity of heroin on demand, he will ‘take’ either Arthur or Martin again. 

Martin suddenly leans close, touches Douglas’ hand, raises it up, and presses a soft kiss onto it. 

Douglas eyes him. 

“For, um, last night.” Martin blushes fiercely. 

Douglas takes a breath – oh, _Martin_ – and says, “As much as I appreciate the gesture, I am neither an actual drug lord nor _The Godfather_ , Martin.” Douglas looks at him and hopes to god that Martin knows this - “You don’t have to do that.” 

Martin nods. “I know. I just wanted to.” 

And why, why is it that gratitude feels like love? Instead of telling Martin off, Douglas reaches for Martin’s hand, raises it to his lips, and gives his knuckles a quick kiss in return. “There.” 

Martin lets out a stunned gasp, as if the sheer concept of Douglas doing such a thing is entirely inconceivable.

Douglas gets up. “We should get to the kitchen if we want to avoid ending up in a brawl of some sort.” 

Martin is still deeply enthralled by his flight books, so in order to distract him from the thought that they might cross paths with Frankie out here, Douglas asks him, “Did you review the Instrument Flight Rules?” 

“Yes, and I know the transponder protocols, only...”

As they walk, Martin slips his hand into his. 

Douglas tries not to feel any particular emotion at it. 

Arthur is busily filling the large serving trays with lunch when they arrive. Mr. B winks at Douglas and asks, rather unsteadily, “Here again for a top-up, are you? Ah, Douglas, I wish I had your stamina. My horrible wife always said…” He frowns. “Now what does she say?” 

Mr. B tends to forget what exactly happened to his wife. Douglas isn’t certain whether it’s wilful memory loss, or whether it’s the years of fervent alcoholism taking their toll. 

“She died, didn’t she? Ha, the old bitch is dead!” 

“She is indeed.” 

By all accounts, it was assisted suicide after her breast cancer came back. Mr. B told a different story though, and Douglas helped him with it. It’s all about the reputation, it’s better to be an old money-laundering grump that murdered his wife in cold blood than the alternative. 

Douglas looks at Arthur and says, “Don’t make me wait.” 

“Of course, Douglas!” Arthur happily follows him into the refrigeration room. 

Douglas has considered taking Martin, as right now it appears to everyone that Arthur is his favourite. But Martin might find the experience highly uncomfortable whether it’s real or not. 

Douglas lowers his jumpsuit and his pants. Arthur kneels, looks up at him and asks, “Douglas?” 

“Hm.” Douglas left the screwdriver in the dry pasta last time, and it’s harder to find. 

“What you did last night...” 

Douglas’ hand stills for a moment. 

“I liked it. A lot.” 

Douglas moves the tins of pineapple, unscrews the grate, and takes yet another bag of heroin. He doesn’t want to think about who it goes to. How many men are shooting up in prison because of him.

“It was _brilliant_.” Arthur’s voice is full of awe. “You are, Douglas.”

Douglas closes his eyes briefly. “Why, naturally.” 

He gives the heroin to Arthur so he can hide it in his pants - also a change of tactics – and returns the grate. 

Arthur is opening his jumpsuit and hiding the drugs, _when the door opens_. The small refrigeration room is flooded with light. 

“Now _what_ do we have here?” 

It’s Johnson. Douglas turns to him, lets him see his cock, and makes sure to insert the necessary irritation into his voice as he says, “What does it look like?”

Johnson eyes them both – Douglas is half naked, Arthur is on his knees with his hands in his pants, seemingly hiding an erection – then mutters, “Fucking poofs.” He orders, “Come out here, _right now!_ ” 

Douglas doesn’t even try to dress again. He’s not hard, but then a check by a guard is sure to _ruin the mood_ , he imagines. 

They walk out to mostly amused looks from all of the kitchen staff. Martin is half-hidden in a corner, looking worried out of his mind, but Douglas makes sure to seem unconcerned as he closes his jumpsuit and allows himself to be escorted out of the kitchen. 

“If I catch you in there ever again it’s solitary, you hear me?”

“Of course, sir.”

Johnson frowns, but he does let him go. 

Douglas leaves the heroin where it is right now - in Arthur’s pants - and exits the kitchen. 

He skips lunch, instead goes by the library, checks on everything there, and then detours to the cell just to have a moment of peace. 

Douglas lies down on his bed and tries to breathe. None the less, he is listening to every footstep in the corridor. Every voice coming closer and further away. Napping is dangerous, here. Everything is. 

When he hears the sound of sensible heels, Douglas sits up. 

Carolyn looks around the door, steps in, and says, “I heard. Close call, was it?” 

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, but I _do_ know, considering Johnson has been telling every guard he meets that my son is, how did he put it, _a flaming faggot_.” 

Douglas eyes her. They’ve never discussed this. While Douglas is aware that Arthur tends to tell her every single thing in his life, he doesn’t know if Arthur has ever told her any details about what they do and do not get up to. He settles on, “The best lies are the ones they want to believe.”

Carolyn sighs. “Did you need more already?”

“He’s been asking ten a week now.” 

“Just don’t get caught, or so help me god…”

Indeed. _So help us, god._

Douglas tells her, “I’m not certain I can keep this up, Carolyn.” 

She eyes him steadily. “You will, because you have no choice. Arthur doesn’t have a choice, Martin doesn’t have a choice, and neither do I. We all do what we have to, because there is no other option.” 

Douglas, after a moment, nods. 

There’s nothing more she can do. Nothing more he can do, either. 

After she leaves, Douglas’ eye falls on Arthur’s new calendar. 

Two hundred and thirty-seven days. 

Douglas gets the heroin from Martin before dinner, who got it from Arthur, and he makes the delivery to Frankie only a few hours late with a minimum of threats thrown at him. But Douglas is only too aware that Frankie _could_ easily do it - bribe a guard and have Martin or Arthur sent to him. If he decides to give that another go, then there’s nothing Douglas can do to stop him. 

_Nothing._

When the lights go out, both Arthur and Martin are quick to come and sit on Douglas’ bed. To read, supposedly, but Douglas cannot help but notice that even Martin isn’t paying attention to his book so much as he is glancing at Arthur while they lean together. 

Arthur gives Douglas an adoring smile when he sees him looking. 

Martin briefly puts his hand on Douglas’ knee. 

And Douglas has considered the fact that this is prison warping his mind, but looking at Martin and Arthur, he already knows that he will fight for them. He will do anything it takes to protect them. 

No matter what the cost. 

And if Douglas allows himself to find a little solace in all of this, a small touch here and there, a bit of masturbation at night... He imagines it’s hardly the worst thing. 

Even if he loves them both.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. (Martin)

 

 

Martin wakes up to the familiar grey ceiling with a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

The first week he was here, every single day felt like the longest day of his life. The meals seemed to take forever - Martin can remember sitting next to Douglas and barely being able to _breathe_ out of fear. The showers were unbearable. The nights were endless. Mr. Ratface was so scary. All of it was the worst Martin had ever experienced.

It still is, in a way. But now Martin gets to sit on Douglas’ bed in the evenings and read a book with Arthur next to him like a furnace of cuddles. Or Douglas tells them stories, his voice rumbling on the air. 

Martin hasn’t flown at all in the last so many months, but because of Douglas, he feels like he has flown to hundreds of places by now. He knows the runways. He has heard about the people. He has felt the wind, the heat, the muggy days and the sharp, cold nights. 

He has been everywhere Douglas could remember to tell him about. 

Martin has sat on Douglas’ bed, with his legs curved over Douglas’ and Arthur pressed to his side, and listened. He has let every word lift him out of this little cell and into the grand world out there. 

It has been beautiful. 

Well… Not everything has been, of course.

Douglas got cut with a knife made from a ceiling fan two weeks ago, and he had to go to the hospital wing to get the cut over his ribs sewn up. 

Arthur fussed over him for days, and he had nightmares again. Douglas didn’t tell the guards that it was one of Frankie’s crew who did it, and they came to a new agreement, so that was okay. 

For now. 

It’s always ‘for now’ in here - Martin has learned has that, too. Friends are for now, people you trust are for now, and everything can change without you being able to do anything about it. 

But not Arthur and Douglas. They’re always here for him. They try to be together every moment of every day, and when Martin’s with them, he knows he is safe. He knows they care for him. Maybe even, well, no, not _love_ , but… Do they? 

Martin has had girlfriends. He has been on dates and kissed and had sex and all of that, but it has never felt like this. Martin thinks now that he never must have been in love before. 

He has never been that close to anyone in his life. They spend every second together, and still it’s not enough. Douglas is the most intelligent person Martin has ever known, and he’s amazing - Martin could listen to him for forever. And Arthur is great in so many ways, he’s supportive and sweet and he’s the best cuddler and he cares, he cares so much. 

The thought of leaving them hurts. Leaving them _here_. 

Martin knows that all everyone ever wants to do is leave prison. And he does want to leave, of course. Not being afraid all the time would be so much better, and he hates so many things in here. 

But. 

Martin looks at Arthur. Arthur is still asleep, and Martin wants to climb into Arthur’s bed, then press his face against Arthur’s back and sleep like that together. 

Martin looks at Douglas. He is still asleep, too, breathing heavily in and out. Martin wants to go over there and press a kiss to Douglas’ cheek. He wants to tell Douglas that he’s wonderful and that he will love him for forever. 

Martin doesn’t do any of those things. He can’t. 

It’s prison. It’s not _real_. 

As the minutes tick by, Arthur slowly wakes up. When the guards change shifts outside, Arthur sits up and circles his one calendar with Snoopadoop on it, and then pulls a page off the other. 

For tomorrow, it says ‘Martin leaves’ - Martin has seen Arthur put it on there the day they knew. 

But for now, it’s still a normal day. Today, Martin is still an inmate. 

Martin says, “Good morning,” to Arthur, feeling nervous for some reason. He’s not sure why. Is it because things could go wrong still, today? Or is it because they could go right? 

Arthur seems as happy as ever. “Good morning, Martin!”

He’s not crying or looking upset at all, so that’s good. That’s… Martin is too lost in thought to avert his eyes while Arthur pees, and Arthur just looks at him and smiles a little. 

It’s not… It’s not sexy, or anything. But it’s close and real. Martin has seen Arthur naked often enough that he could draw every single scar. Martin knows which spot on Douglas’ back hurts most in the mornings, and why he always, always shaves - his beard comes in grey. 

Martin knows them in ways he’s not sure he’ll ever know anyone again. 

Arthur is talking – they’ve recently discovered that Mr. Ratface is actually Mrs. Ratface as she was getting really fat, and now she has noticeable nipples so she probably has a nest of little rats somewhere. “Look, she’s definitely still playing with the playground!” 

She chewed up part of it. 

“Hm, she might have a litter in the walls somewhere.”

“Douglas, do you think I could somehow get a little one? To train?” 

“You’d have to find the nest, first.”

Martin gets ready, too. They haven’t talked about him leaving, really. Arthur has mentioned it a few times, things like, “Just two more weeks!” and “Just five days until you can go home, Martin.” 

But today, none of them have said ‘the last morning’. 

It almost feels like bad luck. Like a superstition that if you say it, it might not come true. Or maybe if you say it, it _will_ come true - Martin isn’t sure which one he’s most afraid off. Even though that’s silly. He will be happy when he’s out. Right? 

In the end, Mr. B is the first to say it. He showering when they arrive by the showers, lavishly washing his belly, and he says, “Ah, Martin, last day for you, my boy, isn’t it?” 

Martin says, “Yes, sir.” 

It seems odd to hear it out loud. 

Mr. B says, “We should all be so lucky. Bit of money laundering and wife-murdering got me eight years, can you believe that?” 

Later, on their way outside, Karl stops them and says, “Hey, Martin, do you have someone to pick you up tomorrow, or do we need to arrange a taxi?” 

Martin says, “No, there’s… My sister said she would come and pick me up.” He doesn’t look at either Douglas or Arthur as he says that. He hadn’t told them that Caitlyn would come. 

They go outside and sit near the fence. 

Douglas asks, “Did you read over the phases of in-flight performance?”

“Yes, I…” Martin feels so guilty when he sees Arthur’s longing look at a bird that flies over the wall that he feels sick. “...did.” 

They don’t talk about it. 

Martin wants to say, “I’ll miss you so, so much,” but even thinking it makes him choke up. He wants to say, “Thank you,” and, “You’ve saved my life,” and, “I _love_ you.”

But he can’t. Instead, they all sit here and look at the people in the yard. Martin can recognise the little deals being done now. He can see the details, hear the whispers. He can tell who’s angry and who’s smug. 

When Mingo comes closer, Martin takes Arthur’s hand, and he can feel Douglas’ hand rest on his leg. 

They’re a team. 

At dinner, Fat Willy gives Martin a card made out of an empty soup tin. It says, “Happy get-out day, Martin!” It’s signed by everyone who works in the kitchen. 

Douglas says, “Ah, a homage to Warhol. An unexpected, but much appreciated commentary on kitchen work in a modern capitalist society.” 

Martin says, “Thank you so much.” 

He gives hugs to Fat Willy, Jalal, and Jinhai, and a fist bump to Damon, then a handshake to Hakeem, Ennis, and Mr. B. They all seem happy for him. Fat Willy tells Martin that when he opens his own restaurant, Martin’s invited. 

Arthur, after his shift, brings a piece of cheesecake to their cell. Arthur forgot to bring a fork, so they take bites off it in turn. 

Mrs. Knapp-Shappey comes by and says, “You ready to leave this hellhole tomorrow then, Martin?”

Martin tells her, “Yes, I’m ready. Thank you. Ah... Carolyn.” Martin still feels awkward using her name, but Arthur kept on saying that he could because she’s his Mum, so it started feeling weird not to. 

Then it’s count. Karl slips Douglas a towel with a small bag of blue pills in it while shouting at him about the books lingering around their cell, and the lights go out. 

Martin feels tense. He should feel great, and he knows that. But it also feels as if the time went by really quickly today, and he didn’t have time to do this _right_. Any of it. Martin wants to say a proper goodbye, only he doesn’t want to say goodbye yet, because it doesn’t feel like it’s over yet. 

How can it be over now? 

Douglas takes his reading light, puts it on the sink so it lights that bit off the cell, and says, “I, too, managed to steal something.” He pours them all a plastic cup of something foamy that Martin recognises as the beer Mr. B brews in the kitchen. “With compliments of Richardson and Birling inc, I present to you: Prison Brew 4.0.” 

“Thank you, Douglas.” Arthur accepts a plastic cup, even though Martin knows that he doesn’t love it, either. 

Martin takes one and toasts it to Douglas’. Douglas looks him in the eyes and says, “To all things good, Martin.” 

Arthur does it, too. He says, his voice a little small, “We’ll miss you.”

Martin puts his cup aside and says, “I’ll, I’ll miss you, too.” And then he’s pulling Arthur close and hugging him. 

Douglas comments, “A bit premature for hugs goodbye, isn’t it?” But Martin reaches out, grabs Douglas’ arm, and pulls him into the hug as well. 

Douglas coughs and lets go again. He has a sip of the beer and comments, “Dear Lord, this truly is horrendous.”

Arthur says, “It’s... well, it’s kind of… It tastes _horrible_ , Douglas.”

Martin hasn’t even tried it, but he’s not sure he wants to now. Especially after Douglas says, “Well, we do brew it in old gasoline containers.” 

Douglas takes the cups and pours them into the toilet, then sits down on his bed. 

Martin follows him, and Arthur sits on Martin’s other side. It feels comfortable like that. But also a little expectant. Martin isn’t sure what he wants, or what to do, only that this is his last chance. For… everything. 

“So, how do you want to spend your last night as an incarcerated man? Flight questions?”

Martin has already given his books to the guards to be added to his personal possessions that he’ll get back when he’s released. He’ll get his old clothes back then, too. 

Martin can see a Greek Mythology book lying by the bed. It reminds him of his first day here. He asks, “Can you read us the Icarus story?” 

Douglas raises an eyebrow. “Ah, interesting choice. The first terrible pilot in history. A favourite, is it?” 

“Yes, actually. I always…” Martin always dreamed of being Icarus. Only instead of flying too high or too low, he would follow instructions _exactly_ because he’s really good at following instructions, and he would have made it across the sea. 

Douglas takes the book, moves the reading light so he has enough light, and finds the right chapter. 

Arthur is sitting to Martin’s side, a bit behind him, and he pulls Martin close so he can lean against his chest. 

They both listen as Douglas starts, _“Among all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the secrets of the gods, none was more cunning than Daedalus.”_

They haven’t done this a lot when it’s just normal reading like this, but it’s nice. Just like Martin noticed on that first day - and how was that only three months ago? So much has happened since, so, so much - Douglas has a fantastic voice. It has a low timbre, and he puts so much emotion into it. 

Martin’s hand has tangled with Arthur’s on his lap. With his other hand he’s nearly touching Douglas’ thigh, and as Douglas moves a little, Martin’s hand brushes Douglas’ leg. Martin doesn’t pull away. 

_“At length, watching the sea gulls in the air - the only creatures that were sure of liberty - he thought of a plan for himself and his young son Icarus, who was captive with him.”_

Arthur is idly running his hand over Martin’s side. 

It’s comfortable, but it also makes him feel a bit hot. Martin can feel where Arthur is touching him, how his whole back connects to Arthur’s front. Their hands are fitting together, fingers slowly tangling and untangling.

Douglas’ thigh trembles a little as Martin touches him. He traces his hand over Douglas’ whole upper leg. Up, to the edge of Douglas’ belly, and then down again, to his knee. 

_“He held himself aloft, wavered this way and that with the wind. And at last, like a great fledgling, he learned to fly.”_

Martin hears the words, and they sound just like the ones he has read before so many times, but they’re more, too. They’re special, coming from Douglas. 

Arthur shifts a little behind him, and Martin can feel Arthur’s erection press to his back. It’s not the first time it has happened. Usually, Martin pretends he doesn’t notice. 

This time though, Martin, feeling brave, leans into Arthur a bit. Then a bit more. Martin feels like he’s doing something sort of impossible, but also as if everything is okay. They’re just listening to a story. Just cuddling. 

He moves his hand more to the middle of Douglas’ legs, and Douglas takes a brief pause to swallow, before _“...the fogs about the earth would weigh you down.”_

Martin doesn’t know what he wants. His heart is beating in a strange and heavy way.

He feels like he _should_ know, he should know what he’s going to do, or offer to do, or what he can’t do. But it’s hard to think like this. It’s so warm and a bit sweaty. Like Arthur, Martin is aroused, too. 

_“...but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if you go too near.”_

Douglas moves forward so Martin can reach more of him if he wants to. Martin can feel it in Douglas’ movement - somehow Douglas’ body is saying, ‘If you want to’ as clearly as if he really were saying it. 

It’s the same with Arthur touching him. If Martin got up now, it would be fine. 

Martin glances at the door. It’s closed, he knows that, it will stay closed until tomorrow morning, but right now that feels good. Safe. He feels safe like this, more so than he ever has. 

_“At first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the air dazed them. A glance downward made their brains reel.”_

Martin slowly moves his hand up Douglas’ leg, until he finds Douglas’ penis. It’s a warm bulge in the fabric of his jumpsuit. Martin’s fingers awkwardly follow the line of it. 

_“But when a great wind filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself sustained like a halcyon bird in the hollow of a wave.”_

Arthur has seen what Martin has done, and he leans over Martin’s side so he can reach. 

_“Everything in the-”_ Douglas stops reading as Arthur touches him, too. 

It’s okay, Martin forgot where they were in the story. All he can think about is the way Douglas’ legs have fallen open and how he is letting them touch. Arthur is still mostly behind Martin, so his penis is pressed to Martin’s back now, and he’s sort of rubbing it there. 

Douglas is getting very hard under their fingers. Martin can feel the shape of him clearly. He can touch him all the way from between his legs where it feels very hot, then up to where his penis tents the fabric, and then to the very tip. Douglas shifts a little when he does that. 

Martin isn’t sure what to do, so he just does that again. And again. 

Douglas swallows heavily, then asks, “What do you want, Martin?”

Martin stills his hand on the bulge of Douglas’ penis. Arthur’s rubbing himself onto his back, and Martin’s own penis is throbbing between his legs. “Ah...” He doesn’t know what to say. 

Only that it’s so good. 

Arthur asks, “Douglas, can we touch you? _Please?_ ” 

Douglas looks at Martin, and Martin nods. Yes, yes he wants that, too. So much. 

Douglas hesitates. Then he opens the press studs on his jumpsuit, pushes his pants down, and his erection pokes out. Martin can feel himself _ache_ watching it, even though he’s not sure what he wants to do. Just seeing Douglas in the low light with the odd shadows over his face and how hard he is, is amazing. 

Arthur says, “Wow, you’re so big, Douglas!” 

Douglas clears his throat and says, carefully, “It is always good to impress - or so I’ve been told.” But he sounds unsure. 

Arthur moves past Martin and puts his hand over Douglas’ penis. At Arthur’s touch, Douglas leans his head back and breathes in through his nose. 

Martin joins Arthur’s hand there. He curiously feels the shape of Douglas’ erection. He follows the soft skin all the way to the tip, his fingers bumping into Arthur’s as he goes. Martin traces over the little hole there, and he can feel the wetness glide over his fingers. 

Douglas is looking at them with something strange in his eyes. He’s breathing hard. 

Arthur is smiling widely, looking between Martin, his own hand, and Douglas. He whispers, “Douglas, this is _brilliant_ ,” in a tone as if he has never seen something as good as this. 

Douglas makes a small sound, then laughs. “I’d argue that what the two of you are doing is entirely…” He breathes. “…beyond categorisation.” 

Martin is really hard, too. It would only take a little bit for him to come. Arthur is still close to him, but he’s not sure what to do, Martin can feel it. Arthur leans against Martin and his penis is right there, by Martin’s back. 

Arthur whispers, “Martin, are you… Is that okay? Because I want you to be okay. I don’t _ever_ want to hurt you.”

Martin nods. “I’m okay, I’m really - I’m okay.” He wants a lot more of this, all of it. 

Arthur moves, puts a hand between them, and opens his jumpsuit. He takes his erection out as well. 

Douglas lays his head back against the wall and sighs a little. His penis twitches in Martin’s hand – Martin was too distracted by Arthur to touch him, but he does it again, now. Martin softly strokes Douglas.

Arthur gets on his knees so he can reach Douglas again. He makes a little tunnel with his hand over Douglas’ penis and pulls it back and forth. Martin slides his hand over Douglas, too, he feels his balls, and then up again, where Arthur is jerking him off. 

Douglas is moving his hips into their hands. He takes a quick breath, then says, “I, hm... “ 

Martin can feel his heart thud. “Yes.” He really wants to see this. He wants to see Douglas like this, he has always wanted to. 

Arthur says, “Yes! Oh, Douglas, yes!”

Douglas tenses, and then his penis in their hands is pumping out come, warm and wet all over their hands. Arthur’s hand bumps into Martin’s, until their fingers are gliding together. 

Martin’s penis throbs as if he’s near coming, too, just from watching it. 

Douglas breathes out a long breath. 

Martin moves – he can feel his penis leave his belly and slap back with a really nice ache – and turns towards Arthur. 

Arthur is sitting up on his knees, leaned over Martin so he could reach Douglas. It can’t be very comfortable but as soon as Douglas slowly reaches out to touch Arthur back, Arthur starts shaking. “Oh!” 

Martin touches Arthur’s penis, too. It feels so warm. Martin’s hand is still wet and sticky from Douglas’ come, and he spreads it around over Arthur’s erection. Then Douglas curls his hand around Arthur’s penis and starts moving it. 

Arthur says, “Oh, that’s so wonderful! Brilliant! Oh, Douglas! I love – that – I love that! Martin! That’s, oh, oh, oh!” 

Arthur comes all over their hands, and a bit onto Douglas’ legs. 

Douglas asks, “Good?”

Martin can feel Arthur tremble as he sits back. He’s smiling a lot. “ _Wow!_ ”

Martin is so close from just watching them. And from _feeling_ them. He quickly opens the press studs on his jumpsuit and lifts his hips up so he can lower his pants. He’s not big. He’s much smaller than Douglas, and Martin would be worried that they’d laugh, only they have seen him before in the showers and... 

Arthur asks, “Can I touch you, Martin?”

Martin nods. He wants to feel Arthur close. 

Arthur leans close and touches Martin’s penis with only his fingertips, but it’s like there are firecrackers going off all over his skin. Martin gasps. 

Douglas first touches Martin’s leg, then moves his hand up and asks, “Yes?”

“Yes, I…” Martin can’t speak with how good it is. Arthur is trailing his penis with his fingers, and Douglas wraps a warm hand there and gives him a pull and then another, in a building rhythm. 

Martin’s sweating, and shaking, and his heart hammers in his chest. Arousal pulses through him with every touch. He can’t hold on, it’s too good. Douglas pulls one more time and Martin gasps and he’s coming like that, between them. His penis spurts over Arthur and Douglas’ hands. 

Even after he’s done coming, Martin’s body is still thrumming.

It smells like it, in the cell. It’s all over their hands. 

It was amazing. 

Douglas reaches over and gives Martin his package of tissues. Martin cleans his hand off, and then gives a tissue to Arthur as well. 

Arthur goes to the sink first. Martin washes his hands next, then Douglas goes. 

Martin knows they should all sleep in their own beds, because there’s no way they can all fit on Douglas’. But he doesn’t want to say goodbye to this. He doesn’t want to say goodbye _at all_. 

Still, he sits down on his own mattress. Arthur comes over, lightly kisses Martin on the cheek, and whispers, “Good night, Martin.” 

Douglas says, “Good night.” 

Martin tries to remember the feeling of Arthur and Douglas’ bodies next to his. Their hands, touching him. He tries not to think of how very, very much he will miss them. 

But he already knows that he will.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. (Arthur)

 

 

Douglas says, “It’s time.” 

Arthur has woken up lots of times throughout the night, so this is just one in a long row of waking-up-moments and remembering that Martin is almost gone. But the guards are changing shift now, so Douglas is right. It is morning. 

Arthur looks at Martin – he’s already sitting upright on his mattress. There are streaks of tears on his cheeks. 

Martin takes a deep breath, and then gets up and takes his things. He doesn’t need to do a lot, since he already gave his books to Karl yesterday. Then he has a pee. Arthur tries not to look at him too much, but at the same time he wants to do nothing but look and see Martin for every extra second more that he can.

Arthur can feel his heart hurt. He doesn’t say, “I don’t want you to go, Martin!” because Arthur _does_ want Martin to go and be happy and fly and have a wonderful life. 

But he wants to go, too. 

The door opens before any of the guards have yelled, ‘All cells open.’ It’s Mum. She pokes her head in and says, “Morning.” And then, “Martin. Time to go.”

Arthur jumps out of bed. Martin’s still crying, and Arthur pulls him into a really big hug. He tries not to cry, he really does try not to, but Martin is crying with big sobs in his arms now. 

Douglas hugs Martin, too. Martin lets out a horribly sad sound at that. His tears leave dark spots on the fabric of Douglas’ jumpsuit. 

Arthur doesn’t want him to cry, so he hugs him again and says, “Don’t be sad, Martin. Please don’t be sad!” 

Mum, who is waiting for them, says, “Come on, Martin. Sweet freedom awaits.”

And Arthur lets go. It’s not easy, because Martin holds on and Arthur wants to hold on, too, but he knows that he shouldn’t. Martin says, in-between sobs, “I don’t want to…”

“Yes, yes, you _do!_ ” Arthur pushes Martin to the door, to Mum. “You need to go Martin, you can be free!”

Martin looks back at them, and he looks _terrible_. He’s gasping for breath. 

Douglas says, “Say a fond hello to the sky from me, will you?” 

Martin takes a shivery breath. “I will. I will, Douglas.” 

Mum takes Martin’s arm and walks him out, and then the door closes. They’re gone. 

Martin is _gone_.

Douglas sits back down on his bed and looks away. He says, “He got out. He got out, and he’s all right.” He sounds like he’s talking to himself. “He’ll be safe, out there.” 

Arthur does cry. He _knows_ it’s not worth it to ever cry and that he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it, Arthur just wants Martin to stay _here_. He wants to smile at Martin and make Martin know that it is for him. He wants to tell Martin that he can hug him hard whenever he feels like it. 

But he can’t.

Eventually, Douglas and Arthur walk together to breakfast, just the two of them. Arthur takes Douglas’ hand, and he smiles at him a little, but it’s not the same as when Martin did it. Arthur knows it’s not the same at all. 

Arthur serves breakfast behind the counter, and he keeps an eye on Douglas - who he talks to and what he does. M.C. jokes about porn. Jeremy asks for another speedball. Jay wants uppers. 

Arthur puts the trays away, then looks up to the tables, and for a moment he feels a spike of fear because _Martin isn’t here_. But then he remembers that _of course_ Martin isn’t here. Martin is home. 

When Arthur starts the clean-up after breakfast, he feels like he’s waiting for Martin to come through the doors and help him. He knows that Martin won’t. But the feeling is still there. 

The whole breakfast shift goes like that - Arthur remembers, and remembers, and remembers that Martin is gone.

Mum comes to check on him, and Arthur asks, “Is he all right? Is Martin all right?”

Mum gives him an odd look and says, “Of course he’s all right. His sister picked him up. He’s probably eating a nice full English somewhere right now.” 

But Arthur is still worried. All he can think of is Martin’s tears and the way he almost couldn’t breathe through them. “But do you _know_ , for sure?” 

Mum’s look softens, and she says, “Arthur, my dear, I escorted him out myself. He was crying his eyes out, granted. But I assure you, he both was and will be _perfectly all right_.” 

Arthur does know that. It’s just… He looks at Mum. “I already miss him so much, Mum.”

She pauses for a moment. Then says, “I know you do.” 

Arthur works until there’s nothing left to do in the kitchen, and then he goes back to the cell, only to find it _empty_. Someone has taken Martin’s mattress. There’s nothing left of him. It’s as if he was never here at all, as if they never had a Martin staying here, a Martin to talk to and hold and smile at.

Arthur sits on the floor where Martin’s mattress used to be.

He stays there for a long while. 

Douglas comes by the cell. He doesn’t comment when he sees Arthur sitting there, he just says, “Care to help make a delivery?”

Arthur says, “Yes, I love helping.” But it feels a little flat, today. 

Together, they deliver some coke to Hasheem, and a shampoo bottle filled with beer to Mingo. Then some more uppers to Jay.

It’s almost like being Santa, delivering presents all over the prison. But some people aren’t that happy, especially the ones who still owe Douglas money. Some beg to get another pill or another dose of something, and then Douglas says no to them, even though they cry and shake and sweat and drool. Arthur doesn’t like seeing that. 

Douglas sends him back to the kitchen so he can deal with Frankie on his own, and Arthur goes, even though he’d rather be with Douglas all day. 

The afternoon takes a long time. 

It’s not the same in the kitchen without Martin. Arthur knows that Martin was only here for three months and that everything will go back to normal soon enough and that’s he’s meant to forget now. But he also feels really stubborn about that because he’ll never forget Martin! _Never._

Damon says, “You’s not smiling. You missing your boyfriend?” 

Arthur looks up from slicing buns with a rusty breadknife. He’s not sure whether Damon is joking about Martin being his boyfriend - people sometimes joke and Arthur doesn’t always get it - but he says, “Yes, I do. I miss him a lot.” 

Damon says, “Yeah, that… that sucks, man.” 

Mr. B offers Arthur a swig from his secret water bottle. “Here, young Arthur, this will cure what ails you.” But Arthur says no. Douglas has always told him not to get addicted to anything in prison because it’s too dangerous. 

Later, when Jalal and Hakeem kneel on their plastic bags that they use as little carpets to pray on, Arthur tries to pray for Martin, too. 

Arthur crosses himself, like Mum taught him a really long time ago - the Father lives on his forehead, the Son on his chest, and the Holy Spirit lives first on the left, and then on the right of him. It reminds Arthur of the safety instructions on a plane. 

That makes him think of Martin even more, because Martin would probably like that.

Or he would be upset that he’s thinking that - Arthur never asked Martin whether he believes in god. There’s so much he never asked him!

Jalal and Hakeem don’t seem to mind that Arthur prayed to a different God than they did while standing in a corner of the kitchen. Jalal even nods at him, and Arthur tries to smile. It’s important to have friends in prison. It’s the most important bit. 

Even if he knows that Hakeem and Damon sometimes hit people so hard in the face that they bleed all over the kitchen, they’re still his friends. 

Ennis helps Arthur move a big bag of rice, and Fat Wily shows them the menu for next week. 

Everything goes on. 

After dinner, Arthur thinks about stealing a piece of cake for Douglas to cheer him up about Martin being gone, but when he’s passing by the guardroom it’s really busy with guards and Johnson is there, so Arthur doesn’t want to go in. 

He takes his dinner to the cell. 

It’s still very, very empty without Martin’s mattress there. 

Douglas says, “You hear about what Jay pulled today?” 

No, Arthur hasn’t. 

“He tried to escape. Climbed the fence because he - and this is his official defence - ‘was chasing butterflies’. He got three weeks of solitary and they’re saying he’ll have a year added to his sentence.” Douglas seems worried about that. 

Arthur looks at Douglas. “Do you think _we_ could escape? If we tried?”

Douglas smiles something sad. “No, Arthur.”

“Maybe if you _really_ tried to come up with a plan?” Douglas is so clever, he could. Douglas can come up with anything! 

“Just six more months.” 

Arthur looks up to his bed and his calendars. He forgot, this morning. He forgot to change them! He immediately puts his food aside and climbs up there to fix them. Today says, ‘Martin leaves’, and that’s not good, Arthur uses his pen to strike it through again and again until it’s a black blob. Then, he goes through every page of his calendar and writes how many days there are left on them, so he’ll always know.  
It’s two hundred and thirteen, today. 

When the count happens and the lights go out, Douglas settles onto his bed and reads his book. 

Arthur isn’t sure what he should do now. When Martin was here, he would go down there and sit with Douglas and Martin and cuddle. But maybe now it’s back like the way it was before, when Arthur used to stay on his own bed. He’s not sure what Douglas wants now. Who they are when it’s just the two of them.

Douglas sighs. “I can _hear_ you thinking up there, Arthur. Don’t strain yourself.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Douglas leans over to see him. “Come on, come down here.”

Really? Arthur jumps off the bed. 

Douglas opens the covers from him. Arthur slips under the covers and fits his body next to Douglas’. He can _just_ do that without falling off the bed. It feels nice. It feels wonderful, and it’s everything Arthur has ever wanted, except… Arthur looks at the empty space where Martin’s mattress used to be. 

It’s not the same without him. It’s like there’s a Martin-shaped hole inside of his heart, just like there’s a Martin-shaped hole in their cell. 

Arthur tells Douglas, “I know I should be glad that Martin got out. And I am glad, I really, _really_ am! It’s just…” 

Douglas strokes his back gently. “...Yes.” 

Arthur looks up at him. “Douglas?”

“Hm?”

“I love Martin.” Arthur knows that for sure now. “I mean, not just I _like_ him, I mean I _love_ him, like a…” Arthur takes a breath and thinks about what Hakeem said. “Like a boyfriend.” 

For a second, Arthur is worried that Douglas will be upset. Even though they did all have sex together. But all Douglas says is, “I’m not _blind_ , Arthur. I know. I’ve known since week one.” 

“Oh.” That’s good, that he knows. Arthur holds onto Douglas, leans against his shoulder and says, “I love you, too, Douglas. I love you so much. Like that, too.”

Douglas takes a breath. “Arthur...” 

Arthur looks at him. “Yes?” They’re really close together, like this. 

Douglas hesitates. Then he mumbles, “Ah, what the hell...” Douglas leans over, tilts Arthur’s head a little, and his lips brush Arthur’s.

Arthur isn’t startled. It’s really soft and warm and _lovely_. Arthur kisses him back right away. Douglas shivers a little in his arms, and Arthur rolls on top of him and kisses him harder. 

Douglas likes it, Arthur can feel it. He can feel Douglas get excited, and Arthur loves that, he rubs his leg against Douglas’ crotch. But then Douglas leans back and says, “That… that’s enough, I believe.”

“Okay.” Arthur rolls away a little and goes back to hugging Douglas. He puts his ear against Douglas’ chest so he can hear his heartbeat. It’s going fast. Arthur closes his eyes and smiles. His chest feels like it’s full of butterflies. For Douglas. And for Martin. 

And even though it’s still a long time until they get out, now they just have to wait, and then they’ll be with Martin. Then, everything will be _brilliant_.

All their dreams will come true.

 

 

 

 

 


	11. (Martin)

 

 

Martin is in bed in his old bedroom, at Mum’s house. 

He’s thinking about Arthur and Douglas. Only a day ago, they were all together, touching each other and smiling and cuddling, and it was _so_ good. Martin doesn’t know whether they will ever have that again. Will they forget about him now? Did it matter, or was it just because they were in prison, and there was no one else? 

It mattered to Martin. It mattered a lot, but he can’t be sure… 

He can’t be sure. 

He’s trying to sleep, but the mattress is too soft. And the floral print duvet and the thick pillows are huge and heavy – Mum most have thought he was cold in prison because she put winter blankets on, even though it’s July. 

It was April when Martin left. 

He can’t tell whether it feels like it has been much longer, or much shorter. It just feels like it was a different world altogether. Like he fell down the rabbit hole, or stepped through the wardrobe into Narnia. 

Martin’s wearing pyjamas, and the fabric feels strange on his skin. He got used to the jumpsuit and wearing it night and day. That felt simpler. Cleaner, somehow. Like he could breathe. 

He doesn’t know how to sleep like this anymore. How to _relax_ like this. The door isn’t locked - Martin checked it several times. He wanted to leave it open, but then the thought of sleeping while being so exposed made him get up again and close it.

Martin startles every single time he hears a car driving past outside, or a dog barking. 

There are orange-tinted streetlights across the road. The light filters through the curtains. The window seems huge.

Martin looks at the cardboard boxes on the floor, and the model aeroplanes dangling from the ceiling. There are books, old ones, in his closet. His computer with the flight simulator program is on the desk. 

He didn’t have any choice but to come back here. He couldn’t afford to keep on renting his attic room if he wasn’t making any money, so he had brought all of his things back here when he had known he was being sent to prison. 

The van is waiting for him on the driveway.

Martin throws his covers off so he can have some air, but then he feels so unprotected. He knows it’s not a big room, he does know that, especially with the boxes standing everywhere it’s not that much bigger than their cell was. But there’s no small space that’s all his, no bit on the floor. 

No people sleeping on a bunk bed next to him. 

He misses... No, it’s more than missing - Martin can still _hear_ Douglas and Arthur. He knows them so well that it feels like he can hear Arthur’s laugh or Douglas’ ‘Oh, _absolutely!_ ’ without even trying. They seem more real than anything else in this room does. 

The clock on the side table says ’02.36’. Martin hates knowing what time it is. He hates these clothes. The covers. The bed. The room. He hates _being_ here! 

He gets out of bed. Martin stands there for a moment, then pulls the thick covers off the mattress, takes a pillow, and puts it on the ground. Martin pulls the duvet around himself like a sleeping bag and lies down onto the floor like that. 

It’s hard. Cold. 

Martin looks at the ceiling. He’s sure that people don’t usually cry on their first night _out_ of prison, and he tries not to, but he’s alone now. It’s all gone. And what if something happens to them while Martin is here? What if he _never_ gets to see them again? Never hug Arthur again, never hold Douglas again, never... 

Martin cries for them. And for himself, too. 

He falls asleep eventually, because he wakes up to the alarm clock _screeching_. Martin panics and looks around him – boxes – and then stumbles out of the blanket rolled around him and tries to turn it off, only he forgot where the button is and...

He sits there, with a pounding heart, trying to catch his breath. 

Martin instantly and desperately misses the sound of Arthur jumping off the bunk bed in the mornings and his shout of “Good morning, Martin!” He misses Douglas’ grumbles, and Carolyn’s, “Good morning, my surly inmates.” Or Karl’s, “Rise and shine – Richardson, _make your bed!_ ” with a wink. 

Here, it’s just an alarm clock. 

Martin finds his clothes and goes to Mum’s pristine bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror, but it’s like looking at a stranger. His hair is longer than it’s ever been - his curls bounce around his ears. He seems pale. He has bags under his eyes. 

He undresses, steps into the shower, and forgets that he has to change the temperature himself. 

He uses Mum’s soap and shampoo and he is blown away by the perfume. It’s so strong and fake-smelling. 

Martin looks at his body in the mirror, too, when he towels himself off. He’s skinny, but then he’s always been. He feels different, though, in some way. He feels touched. Held. He was held, and he was loved - Martin will always, always remember that. 

He goes downstairs. It even smells wrong here. The hall smells like food - Mum has made a huge breakfast. She seems to think that Martin has been hungry in prison, too. There’s way more than he could ever eat, toast and beans and sausages. 

There’s also a letter lying on his plate. It’s addressed to him. “The postman brought it this morning. I had to sign for it! Is it from flight school, Martin?”

“Ah, yes?” That’s odd, Martin thought that he had paid all of his bills. He immediately takes it and opens it. 

What’s inside is an official letter informing him that, _‘Mr. Martin Crieff is expected on 05/08, 14:00 at Birmingham International Airfield for an instrument rating test_.’ The page behind it says, _‘Flight lesson schedule. 25/07, 26/07, 27/07_ …’ all the way to _‘30/08’_. 

Martin has a flight lesson booked almost every day this summer. Starting today. He looks at the clock in the kitchen – in five hours! His hands start to tremble. 

Underneath the schedule it says, “PAID IN FULL”

Martin makes a small sound. 

He looks up at Mum. Did she do this? Did _Caitlyn?_ No, of course not, they don’t have the money for that. This many lessons all through summer would have cost thousands of pounds, plus the instrument rating, that’s five or six _thousand_ pounds total, no one Martin knows has that kind of… 

Martin suddenly remembers Douglas rolling up a bundle of fifty pound notes and giving them along with Karl to be put into his account every couple of days. But no, that can’t... And then Martin remembers Douglas’ last words to him - “Say a fond hello to the sky from me, will you?”

Martin gasps for breath. 

Mum asks, “Are you all right, Martin? Is it another bill? I thought you were done with all of that.” 

Martin looks at her and says, “No, not a bill. I got a…” And he has never lied like this to Mum in his life, but he can’t look at her and break her heart again, not if it doesn’t work out. Martin can’t do that. So he says, “I got ah… a community service assignment?” He adds, lying wildly, “It’s just for the rest of the summer. I’ll take a real job, too, of course. With the van.”

She seems mollified, for now. “Well, all right then.”

Martin keeps the letter next to him and eats quickly. 

He goes back to his room with a quick, “I need to get ready.” He opens several of the cardboard boxes to look for his phone. It’s an old Nokia. He’s had it for years and years but it always worked well and… He finds it. 

It still has a single bar of battery. 

Martin plugs it in and leafs through his release documents he got from the prison. He finds the number, then calls Mrs. Knapp-Shappey’s office. Carolyn doesn’t pick up, but there’s an answering machine.

Martin says, awkwardly, “Hello, um, it’s Martin. Ah, Martin Crieff? I want to...” He takes a breath. “I want to talk to Douglas and Arthur if I could, please? They could call me on this number, or I’ll call them, or...” Martin trails off. 

It’s hard, getting phone calls in prison. People will be listening to everything they say. 

And she shouldn’t think that, “It’s not an emergency! Everything is fine.” Martin looks at the letter lying on his bed. “More than fine! I just wanted to...” 

The answering machine shuts off. 

Martin starts his computer. He needs to make money - urgently. He can put an ad in the papers for being a man with a van again. He checks online vacancies too, to work as a cleaner, or in McDonald's. He’ll need to work in the evenings or at night if he’s flying during the day. He’ll have to pay Douglas back. 

Martin watches the phone, and at the same time he counts the prison hours in his head. Arthur is busy in the kitchen cleaning up breakfast and preparing lunch right now. Douglas is in the library. 

And then the phone rings. 

Martin jumps up and answers it. “Hello?”

“You _rang?_ ” Douglas sounds cheerful. Arthur, in the background, says, “Hello, Martin!”

Martin can feel a smile break all over his face just hearing their voices. He says, “I, ah, I got a letter…”

“You did, did you?” 

“Douglas!” Martin knows, of course he does. “I _know_ it was you. And I can’t… I can’t pay you back right now but I’ve been making a schedule and I think in six months, or possibly five if I- “

“Martin, it’s a present.” 

“What? No, you can’t just _give_ me this.” 

“I can and I will.” 

“Douglas, no, that’s not…” 

“Martin, the one benefit to the drug trade and Carolyn’s generous contributions is that I, personally, have more cash than I know what to do with. _This_ is what I want to do with it.” 

Martin sits down heavily on the bed. “Oh.” He swallows. “But... why?” Why would Douglas do that? 

“I want you to fly. Be the _happy little pilot_ you’re meant to be.” 

Arthur says, “Yes, Martin, we want you to fly and be happy!” 

Martin can feel his heart thud just from hearing their voices. He misses them so much it _hurts_. He says, feeling bad as he says it because they’re _not_ , “I want you to be happy, too.” 

Douglas hesitates. “And we will be, once we’re out. Won’t we, Arthur?”

Arthur takes the phone and says, “We will!” and then, “Are you excited that you’re going to fly again?”

Martin hasn’t let himself think about it. He says, “I don’t know.” 

What if he can’t do it? What if he just fails again? Because he will, he _will_ , he has tried so much and… It’s like the thing about insanity being trying again and again and expecting different results? That’s what this is. Douglas put his trust in him, and now Martin is going to fail him. 

He says, his voice wavering, “Douglas, it’s _so_ much money. And I’ve tried a lot already.” Martin takes a breath. “I don’t think I should do it. I can’t.” 

Douglas says, “Martin, you have been trained for three months by a professional pilot and a man _who loves to help_. You are ready.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “Also, it’s not refundable, so you better enjoy it.” 

Martin can feel the guilt build in his belly. “Oh.” 

He wants to say so much more. But the beeping starts to tell them that the five minutes are almost gone. Arthur shouts, “Goodbye, Martin!” and Douglas says, “The best of luck, and-“

The line cuts off. That was it.

Like water that ran through his hands. 

Martin didn’t tell them to call back soon. Or that he can call them. Or that he’ll let them know through Carolyn how it goes. Or that he loves them, and that he misses them. 

But... Martin looks at the clock. He’ll go. He’ll go and fly, because… He has to. 

Birmingham is over an hour away. Martin’s glad that Douglas chose it, because he couldn’t go to his old flight school again, of course. They all know him there, and they know what happened.

Martin gets into his van, and for a moment he isn’t sure whether he still remembers how to drive, let alone how to fly. He carefully turns the key, and then drives off the driveway. 

Martin makes it there with thirty minutes to spare and with nerves rolling around in his stomach. He hasn’t flown in almost six months. There was prison, of course, and before that he got arrested and there was all the legal stuff. 

He doesn’t know this instructor. He doesn’t have the aptitude. What is he thinking? Why did Douglas assume that Martin could do this, _why?_ Why is this… 

“Martin Crieff?”

Martin looks up. It’s a handsome man in his fifties who gives Martin a firm handshake and says, “Herc Shipwright, pleasure.” 

“Hello... Sir.” Martin tries to appear confident, but he feels anything but. 

They walk to a Cessna 182 RG, and Martin does the prescribed walk-around. He tries to breathe, but it’s hard. He sits down inside and looks at the instruments, and he tries to remember the schematics, but all he can hear is Douglas saying, “Oh, you absolutely _can_ do it blindfolded! I did a take-off with a Boeing 737 hung-over and with my eyes closed once, and it was _fine_.” 

Martin starts the engine. 

He recites the usual operating checklist while he confirms the various settings, like he practised with Douglas. “Take off data, set. Flight and navigation instruments, set. Altitude select, set. APU, shut down.” Martin starts the engine and taxies over the runway. The plane takes off, and as always, the feeling is electric. Martin can’t help but smile as the wheels leave the earth and he can feel that little tug in his belly. The world grows smaller underneath them. 

Martin looks at the controls. “Landing gear, up and off. Flaps, up. Transition level, check.” 

Herc says, “Good ascent. You clearly know how to fly.” 

And Martin can barely believe it. “You don’t… You don’t think I don’t have the aptitude for it? And ah, fuel schedule, set.”

Herc seems surprised that he even asked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been flying for years. Keep an eye on the altitude.”

Martin feels a knot in his throat. “I _have_. Um. Been flying for years. I just had a… I haven’t…” He breathes. “Landing lights, off. Altimeter, re-set.” 

They soar through the bright blue sky. In his mind, Martin tells it, “Douglas says hello.” Then he quickly checks all the controls again, because he can’t get complacent, complacency is the number one cause of human error! 

But Martin keeps an eye on the sky regardless, and he thinks of Douglas and Arthur. They’re in his heart, now. And in his head, and his body.

He carries them with him wherever he goes.

 

 

 

 

 


	12. (Douglas)

 

 

Douglas gave in. 

Oh, _of course_ he bloody did. There’s only so much a man can say no to, and he’s tired, worn out, and this is what makes him live, still. 

The memory of Martin’s cautious hand on his leg, then rubbing over his cock. 

The memory of Arthur leaning over him and jerking him off. 

When Arthur confesses that he loves them both - of course he does, Arthur is in love with Martin and just simply assumes that he loves Douglas on top of it because Arthur has a big enough heart to not even remotely question that fact - Douglas kisses him. 

Douglas will treasure it, Arthur’s adoration. He will let it fill his heart for the six months they have left to get through this. He can carry both of them. 

And then, when it’s done, he’ll let Arthur go to Martin. They might actually make it, those two together. Or they won’t - Douglas has no idea - but he’ll give them a shot at it. 

Douglas orchestrated the flight lessons and instructor for Martin before any of that ever happened, and he hopes that Martin knows that. The sex had nothing to do with it. Douglas arranged it because he _could_. Herc’s a friend from days gone by, and Douglas has money. But mostly, he wanted this not to have been the end of the world for at least one of them. 

Martin can have a life, out there. 

And just hearing Martin’s voice was enough to make all of the strain of dealing with Frankie and the other psychopaths in this place seem worth it. At least Douglas did that right. Martin got out, relatively in one piece. And he is out there now, working to see his dream fulfilled. The thought gives Douglas an immense wave of pride - _he_ did that, for Martin. 

It might be one of the best things he has ever done. 

Arthur cautiously climbs into his bed in the evening, and Douglas pulls him close and kisses him. Arthur smiles against his lips and says, “You’re amazing, Douglas!” and “I love you, all of me loves you so, so much!”

Douglas isn’t sure whether there will be anything left out there for him, when he gets out. Five years is a long time. Verity is a teenager now, she doesn’t need him. Helena is happy with someone else, much happier than she ever was with him. And Douglas hasn’t flown in years - he’ll get out with an outdated licence and a criminal record. 

In here, he’s relatively accomplished. But once he’s out, his entire network will fall away. He’s hardly the ‘dealing on a street corner’ sort, so retirement seems like the logical option. Only, he’s not ready for that at all. He wants to be out there. 

Douglas pushes all of that to the back of his mind and focuses on surviving in here, first. But he’s aware of how temporary it is. 

Douglas touches Arthur with care, as slowly as he can manage, until Arthur trembles under his hands.

Afterwards, Douglas holds him. 

Arthur deserves every second of it. And what Douglas receives in return – the glide of Arthur’s skin against his in the dark, the heat of him – is worth it, too. It allows him to forget what lives outside their door. 

Even if only for a while. 

Frankie poses a problem that Douglas can’t ignore any longer, even though he would very much like to. Douglas allowed himself to be pressured into providing more and more, but there needs to be an end to it. Six months is too long to keep on going like this.

So they came up with a plan. 

Douglas kisses Arthur furtively after he’s brushed his teeth that morning. He tastes minty-fresh. 

Arthur’s eyes shine as he says, “Douglas!”

Douglas double-checks the razorblade that’s hidden in the lining of his jumpsuit – he sews it in there himself every time there’s a new one – and says, as casually as he can manage, “Stay in the kitchen today.”

“Why, is there a delivery?”

“No.” Douglas eyes Arthur and wonders how much Arthur knows, really. How much he should burden him with. “I’m going to push back, that’s all.” 

Arthur seems scared, but not nearly enough. He nods seriously. “Okay, all right, can I… help?”

“No, I’ll handle it.” Douglas pulls him in and kisses him again gently. Then - _oh, why not_ \- he says, “Love you.”

Arthur’s face does a complicated dance between pure happiness and worry. “I love you, too!”

“Then go to the kitchen.”

Arthur does, and Douglas looks at his retreating figure in the corridor with a heavy weight in his stomach. 

Then, he finds Karl’s eyes and nods at him. 

Time to do this. 

Douglas never thought of himself as capable of genuine violence. But then that’s what prison does, isn’t it? It makes criminals out of them all. Douglas thinks back to Frankie saying, only yesterday, “One gone… Means it’ll have to be Arthur again, then. The _screamer_.” 

Douglas pulls the razorblade out of the seam of his jumpsuit and holds it between his fingers. 

It has to end sometime. It _has_ to.

Douglas walks behind Karl, to Frankie’s cell. It hasn’t been opened yet. Karl looks back at him and yells, “All cells open!” He unlocks Frankie’s cell, then walks off. 

Douglas opens the door himself. 

“Frankie.” 

Frankie’s standing by the sink. “Yeah, what?” 

“Delivery.” Douglas steps up behind him and presses the razorblade to Frankie’s throat. He actively has to push himself to make it connect with the skin, but when it does, muscle memory takes over. Douglas feels a low, rolling drum in his stomach as the blood _sprays_ over his hands. 

Frankie turns around, touches his neck, and presses his hand there in mute, gasping horror.

Douglas’ knees wobble. He says, “Now, do I need to finish the job? Or are we clear that I’m not giving you a single gram anymore, and you’re staying away from Arthur?” 

Frankie makes a sharp movement forward, seemingly to attach him, but the shock has made him slow. Douglas can flinch away in time. 

“I need an answer… Or you can simply bleed to death. That would work, too.” 

Frankie holds his throat and grumbles, “...kill you!” The blood is lazily spurting through his fingers.

“Or - just a thought - you give in, I alert the guards, and you’re perfectly fine in no time.” Douglas swallows heavily and eyes the blood. He doesn’t want to kill him. He never did. “You have approximately thirty seconds, so think fast.” 

Frankie sinks down to his knees, still holding his neck. His face is paling rapidly. The blood is staining his jumpsuit, turning the orange into a dark red. 

“Honestly, would you really rather die?” Douglas asks. 

“No,” he gurgles. 

“Good.” Douglas kneels, puts pressure on Frankie’s neck, and he doesn’t have to try overly hard to add a hint of urgency to his voice when he shouts, “Guard! Help!” 

Karl runs up, accompanied by the hospital wing’s entire medical team. They were called to see to another patient in a cell three doors down - Carolyn’s touch - and they take over and put pressure on the wound. 

Douglas steps to the side, feeling as if he can barely stand on his feet. He looks at his hands, streaked with blood. They are shaking. He must have dropped the razorblade at some point, because he doesn’t have it anymore. 

One of the nurses asks him, “What happened?”

Douglas quickly tells the lie they’ve prepared. “I walked by and saw him like that. I have medical training, so I tried to…”

He must seem distraught enough that he’s believed, or it’s the ample bribes to people in power, or maybe they just don’t give a damn who murders who in here. 

They collect Frankie. And they let Douglas go. 

Douglas walks back to their cell and immediately washes his hands, carefully and repeatedly. He strips out of his blood-splattered jumpsuit, and changes into another. Then, he sits down on the bed, shaking. The sweat runs over his face. 

Carolyn appears at one point. She says, “They believed it.” And then, with a shade of kindness in her voice, “Pull yourself together. It worked.”

Douglas looks at her. He can still _feel_ himself doing it. The hot rush of blood. The copper smell of it. 

Carolyn eyes him. “He’ll be in the hospital wing, and after that in solitary, for his own protection. I’ll try for at least a month.” She pauses, then looks at him with all the determination of a mother. “I plan on having a nice little chat with him myself about hurting Arthur.” 

Douglas nods. 

“Now get yourself together!”

She’s gone. 

Douglas balls up his jumpsuit, walks by laundry and gives it to them. He says he ‘had something to take care of’ - the more people who know, the better. 

Then he goes to the kitchen. 

Arthur is sitting on a chair in the corner, peeling potatoes and looking more anxious than Douglas has ever seen him. When he looks up, Arthur’s face changes into pure relief. He jumps up, runs close, and hugs him. “Douglas!” 

Douglas leans back and kisses him on the lips. 

They look up to see the entire kitchen staring at them. Douglas coughs. 

By afternoon, several of Frankie’s crew approach him. “Did you whack him?”

Douglas grins. “Possibly.” He spells it out for them, “I’m no longer supplying. Stay out of my way, keep your hands off Arthur, and we’ll be _the best of friends_. Get in my way, and you’ll be bleeding, too. Understood?”

He receives unanimous nods. They’re mainly relieved that they’re not working for _him_ now, Douglas assumes. 

That night, after lights out, there’s a knock on the cell door. Whoever it is waits a second – which is highly fortunate because it gives Arthur time to jump out of Douglas’ bed and pull his pants up – and then opens the door with a key. 

Douglas raises his eyebrows at Carolyn. 

She looks at them, nods, and hands Arthur a phone and charger. “I don’t fancy fending phone calls for the next six months.” She smiles briefly. “I put his number in there.”

“Oh, wow, thank you Mum!”

Douglas nods at her.

“Goodnight.” 

Carolyn leaves, and Arthur hands Douglas the phone. He opens the menu. The only two numbers in there are Carolyn’s personal number, and Martin’s. Douglas looks at Arthur. It’s only nine. 

“We should call him!” 

Douglas does. The phone rings a few times, and then there’s Martin’s voice. “Who’s this?”

Douglas says – as always, feeling a sense of relief at hearing that Martin is all right - “Your _prison palls_.” 

“Douglas?! Oh my god, are you okay?” 

Arthur says into the phone, “Martin! Mum gave us a phone, so we can call you.” 

“Are you? Okay?”

Douglas sits back on the bed and leans against the wall, while Arthur sits next to his side. Douglas takes a breath. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to tell this to Martin, but Douglas can hear himself say, “I had a rather _exciting_ morning.” 

Martin can clearly tell by his voice that he means it. “What happened?”

“We executed a little plan to get rid of Frankie.”

“Oh.” Martin takes a breath.

“He’s in solitary, for at least a month now.” Douglas glances at Arthur and lies, “He’ll be unlikely to attack after that, I wager.”

Martin sounds relieved. “Oh, that’s great, I ah…” He hesitates, then says, “I worried. Douglas, I worry every single day! It’s not fair that I’m here and that you’re…”

Douglas says, “It is perfectly fair.” He adds, “And I personally am _enormously_ glad that you are out there, Martin.” 

It might have sounded overly heartfelt, because Martin says, his voice high with hope, “You _are?_ ” 

Douglas glances at Arthur and settles on, “We both want you to be all right.” 

Arthur leans in and says into the phone, “We love you, Martin. So much.”

Martin is quiet. Then he says, “I, ah, I love you, too.” 

Douglas doesn’t say a word. 

Martin says, “Is that… Is it okay, that I love both of you?” 

Douglas can feel his heart twist. _Both of you._

“Because… I do.”

Arthur says, “Me, too.” He adds, “We’ve kissed, and... Without you. I’m sorry, Martin.”

Martin says, “That’s… okay. I mean, I’m not there, so I can’t…” He sounds sad. 

“It just for six months,” Douglas offers, feeling like an enormous fraud. Martin seems forgiving enough right now, but will he always be? 

“Yes, six months! And we’ll talk to you as often as we can, I promise!” Arthur sounds eager. And _in love_.

They end the call well after midnight. 

Arthur lays his head onto Douglas’ chest. He cries a little, then smiles at him and says, “Six months isn’t very long at all.”

Douglas agrees. “That’s _nothing_.” 

He kisses Arthur’s tears away.

 

 

 

 

 


	13. (Martin)

 

 

This is it. 

Today is the 24th of January, and Martin is waiting by the prison gate. 

It feels as if almost no time has passed since he walked out of here himself, but also as if _everything_ has changed. After a summer of lessons with Herc, Martin - after twelve years of trying – got his commercial flight licence. After that, he trained to get his multi-engine rating. 

It was amazing. Martin was nervous, of course, but he also did it. He really did it. And every day, as soon as he landed and he was back in his van, he called Douglas and Arthur to tell them all about it. 

Martin has been spending more money on his phone bill now that he ever has in his life, but it has been worth it to hear them so often. They talk every single night, often until very late. Martin feels even more as if their voices live inside his head, now. He can hear how they’re feeling, and what’s going on. 

They’ve done… other things, too. They have had sex together most nights. Martin knows it doesn’t really count through the phone, maybe. But it _feels_ like it does.

And today, Martin’s here, waiting. He got up at five this morning to be here on time. He can feel the nerves stab his stomach. What if it’s different? Martin only spent three months with them and now six months apart. What if it somehow doesn’t work?

A car pulls up and parks next to Martin’s van. 

It’s Carolyn. She’s not wearing her uniform today. She walks up and says, “Why, Martin, fancy seeing you here on this fine day.” 

Martin says, “I promised that… I promised I’d be here.”

“And so you are.” Carolyn looks him over, and then asks, “Arthur told me you got your flight licence?”

“Yes!” Martin is only too happy to talk about that. “In October. I’m still trying to find a job, and that’ll be very hard of course because of my record, but…” He still gets a bit choked up when he says it. “I have my licence, at least.”

Every single time he’s flown, Martin has said a hello to the sky for Douglas. Sometimes he also said, “Brilliant!’ in his head for Arthur, too, which made them both laugh when Martin told them about it. 

Carolyn nods. She wants to say something else, but then the gate opens. Martin can feel another shot of nerves as he can see Karl appear, and then behind Karl, Arthur! Arthur waves at them - he is wearing jeans and a bright red jacket and orange gloves – and he yells, “Martin! You’re here!” He runs up to them and pulls Martin into a huge hug.

Then Arthur lets go, so he can hug Carolyn, too. “Mum, we’re out!” 

She says, “Ah, my wayward child…” She sounds a bit emotional.

Martin looks behind Arthur, at Douglas walking out. Douglas has stopped just a few steps out of the gate. He looks different, in his own clothes. He’s in a suit, but it hangs off him a bit. He’s looking at the sky.

Martin walks up to him, then wraps his arms around Douglas and hugs him. 

Douglas is trembling a bit. 

“Are you okay?” Martin whispers, so no one else can hear.

“…naturally.” Douglas’ voice sounds unsteady, too. 

Martin holds him extra hard. Then, as he lets go, he puts a kiss to Douglas’ cheek. And then, feeling brave, he kisses Douglas on the lips, just for a moment. Martin never got to do that before. It’s like a quick burst of something warm and _amazing_.

Douglas looks at him in surprise. But Martin says what he has wanted to say for many months now, and what he has always imagined himself saying to Douglas when he came out of prison - “I love you.” 

Douglas swallows heavily. “Martin…” 

Arthur comes over, and he hugs Douglas, too. “We’re out!” 

Martin tries not to cry. They’re holding onto each other’s hands and arms, and Martin can’t stop touching them both because he can feel that they’re real, now. They’re not just voices on the phone. They’re actual, real people, and he got them _back_.

Carolyn has been keeping herself to the side, but she comes up and says, “If I may break up this love fest…” They all look at her. “I have a proposition for the three of you.” She eyes Martin. “If you’ll follow me with your car?” 

Martin didn’t really think about where they’d go first, he thought maybe somewhere to get something to eat, or… He didn’t really think this far. Maybe they’re going to Carolyn’s house? “Okay.”

As they walk to the cars, Arthur says, “Wow, Mum, you drove the Bentley!” And then, “That’s your van, Martin?” 

Martin looks at his decrepit old van, parked next to what is apparently Carolyn’s really expensive car. He tries to see it through Arthur’s eyes. Or Douglas’. Martin feels a wave of shame. They do know that he’s not rich, but what if… 

“Can we drive with you, Martin?” Arthur seems excited. “It’s just,” He looks at Carolyn. “We see Mum all the time, but we haven’t seen you, so…”

Martin checks with Carolyn, who nods. “Why not.” 

They all pile into the van. Martin sits behind the wheel, Arthur in the middle, and Douglas sits by the door. He pulls it shut. Carolyn drives off the parking lot, and Martin follows her. 

Arthur is proclaiming, “This is brilliant, Martin! A real _van!_ ”

Martin glances at Douglas and sees him look at the road speeding by. Martin remembers how odd it was to drive his car the first time after only three months away. He can’t imagine what it must feel like after being stuck in prison for almost five years. 

Douglas doesn’t speak a lot, at first. But maybe that’s because Arthur doesn’t _stop_ talking - he’s looking around eagerly, commenting on what cars look like, and their colours, and trees, and animals, “Oh, WOW, look, it’s a horse! A real horse!” 

After a while, Douglas asks, “Did Carolyn specify what this ‘proposal’ is about then, Arthur?” 

“No.” Arthur sounds unconcerned. “Only, I think that it might be that we’re going to go see GERTI.” 

“GERTI?” Martin’s voice sounds a little high. He exchanges a glance with Douglas. “Why?” 

“I’ve told Mum that you’d love to see it.” 

Martin can’t argue with that - he _would_ love to see a private jet. Maybe they’ll get to see the cockpit? Or even… No, he can’t _fly_ it - Martin isn’t qualified for that type of aircraft. And Douglas needs to renew his licence before he is allowed to fly anything. 

But Arthur was right - Carolyn’s car takes the familiar road to the airfield. They drive onto the airfields’ parking lot and Martin parks the van. 

Carolyn gets out and starts walking. They have to hurry to catch up with her and when they do, she says, “You are both familiar with the fact that I received a jet in the divorce from my ogre of an ex-husband?”

Douglas says, “We are.” 

“It’s been regrettably gathering dust while I’ve been employed at our favourite penitentiary. But now that all three of you have rejoined polite society...” Carolyn opens the hangar. “I gave them my resignation this morning.”

It’s a very large airplane hangar and there are a lot of planes inside. Carolyn leads them to the back left, and Martin sees it. A Lockheed McDonnell 3-12. It’s an older model, but the lines, and the engines…

Martin’s so busy looking at the outside that he almost misses Carolyn opening the door and ushering Arthur and Douglas inside. 

Martin can hear Carolyn ask, “What do you think, Douglas?”

And Douglas’ reply, “Ah, the old girl might have a few more adventures in her still. Why, do you have plans? Want me to smuggle you some heroin, Carolyn?”

Martin steps inside and follows them to the cockpit. He looks at all of the instruments curiously. 

Carolyn says, “I was thinking of starting a charter airline, in fact. Or well, not so much an airline, more like an air-dot, considering it’s only the one plane. We can fly private passengers.” 

Martin is looking at the magnetic compass and the vertical speed indicator, along with the rest of the flight instruments. It’s old, but like Douglas said, this plane definitely has some potential still. It could be a good plan, if Carolyn wants to do that. 

Douglas sits down in the pilot seat and sighs. “Ah, _yes_... If _that_ doesn’t feel familiar.” 

Carolyn asks, “What do you say, Martin?”

Martin looks up from studying the short-range radio navigation system. “Oh, ah, it’s a very nice plane? You don’t see them a lot anymore but they were built to last, and - ” 

Carolyn nods to the seat next to Douglas’. “I meant about flying for me.” 

Martin’s heart stills. “ _Flying?_ For you?”

“Yes, of course! Who else is going to employ the three of you useless ex-criminals?” Carolyn is saying, “Not that I can pay you a lot, mind. I’m not even sure it’ll make a profit, but – “

Martin quickly shouts, “I would _love_ to!” 

Douglas eyes Carolyn. “You are aware that _some of us_ don’t fly for peanuts.” He leans back into the chair. “Now, what _are_ the industry standards for a former captain with over twenty years of experience?” 

“One who spent the last five years in prison merrily dealing drugs? Non-existent.” 

“Ah, I wouldn’t go that far...” 

Martin tunes out Douglas negotiating with Carolyn in order to look at the galley. He meets Arthur’s smile. “Are you happy, Martin?”

“I... Yes!” Martin smiles back at him. 

Arthur steps a little closer, and then pulls him into a hug. Martin can feel his stomach jump at it. Especially when Arthur leans back a bit and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Martin nods, and Arthur kisses him, long and slow, standing in the galley. 

Until Carolyn says, “Right, the two of you -” She looks back at Douglas. “Or the _three_ of you, so help me god – I’m only going to say this once: not in my house, and not in my plane. Anywhere else is none of my concern, as long as you’re all safe and content. Are we clear on that?” 

Arthur says, unconcerned, “Okay, Mum!”

Martin can feel a blush heat his cheeks, but he says, “Yes.”

Douglas gives her a quick nod. 

They leave. 

Douglas seems better now - Martin heard him negotiate for three times the amount Carolyn originally was planning to pay him. Martin doesn’t care about the money so much. He cares about tangling his fingers with Arthur’s. And – as he looks back - about what type of ailerons are on GERTI. 

When they get back to the cars, Carolyn takes a bottle of champagne out of her car and opens it. She has four glasses, too. She pours them all a glass, and then proposes a toast. “To the birth of our own little air-dot.” 

They all raise a glass and say, “To our air-dot.” 

Martin feels like he’s in some sort of daydream, standing here between the three of them. It’s like it can’t actually be true. Life can’t possibly be this good. Martin thought that he would have to spend the rest of his life taking a handful of rare interim flights, never having a steady job. And he would have been happy to do that. But this! 

They all finish their champagne, except Douglas, who puts his glass down and says, “As _thrilling_ as this has been, I was rather hoping to go home?” 

Martin says, “Oh, I could drive you there?” 

Arthur asks, “Could I come with, too? To, um, say goodbye?”

Carolyn rolls her eyes and says, “As previously stated, yes. Go and be free, my inmates.” 

She does briefly smile when Arthur says, “Thank you, Mum! If I stay the night, I’ll call so I can say goodnight to you.” 

Martin can see her gaze soften when Arthur is turned, too. She seems relieved that Arthur is out of prison. And that she’s done with being a guard, too, probably. 

Martin drives the van to Douglas’ house. It’s not too far away from Fitton airfield. Douglas directs them, and they stop by a large, white bungalow. Douglas gets out of the van and jiggles his keys. “Part of my personal effects.” 

They all walk up the door, and Douglas opens it. It smells a little stale inside. 

It’s a mostly empty house. The sofas have plastic covers over them. There’s not a lot of dust anywhere, so someone cleaned in the last five years at least, but there are no pictures on the walls, or decorations anywhere. The kitchen counter is bare.

Douglas opens the fridge and says, “Ah, she left me something.” 

Martin can see milk, cheese, bread, and eggs, things like that. He asks, “Who?”

“Helena.” 

Oh. Douglas’ wife. Or ex-wife.

Douglas glances at him. “This was our house.” 

Martin looks around at the empty kitchen. Of course, yes. It would have been Douglas’ house with his wife. 

Arthur seems unsure, too. 

Douglas looks back at them and says, “I would offer you both a proper drink, but alas… All I have is juice or milk. Then again, Arthur - _juice?_ ” 

Arthur immediately perks up. “Yes, please!” 

Douglas pours them all a glass of orange juice. 

Martin looks at Douglas and Arthur drinking juice in the empty kitchen, and it makes his heart fill up with warmth. It doesn’t matter that the house seems bare and cold. They’re all here together. And they’re free. That means _everything_.

But Martin remembers what his first night back from prison was like. And Martin can see Douglas all alone in this house, in-between the plastic covers and the memories of his ex-wife, and he feels a little worried. He asks, “Can we stay here tonight?”

Douglas looks at him. “A bit forward, isn’t it? It’s not even noon.”

No, it isn’t, because it’s a big house, and so empty, and Douglas won’t sleep at all in here without a door to shut and people to protect. Martin thinks about taking a mattress and putting it on the floor in the living room, building them a place to sleep and be safe.

And also, well... 

Martin puts his glass down. He carefully leans in and kisses Douglas. Softly. But Douglas doesn’t kiss back. 

Douglas says, “Martin...”

“I want to.” Martin leans in to kiss him again.

Arthur is behind him, and he kisses Martin’s neck, which tickles so Martin laughs.

Douglas takes a step back. “No, I mean it.” Douglas looks at both of them, and then sighs. “I asked you both here because… I imagine life will be a lot easier if we are merely colleagues. Naturally, the two of you can be together. But I am hereby removing myself from the equation.”

Oh. Martin can feel that like a shock. No! He doesn’t want…

“But don’t you want to be with us, Douglas?” Arthur sounds confused. 

There’s a moment of silence. “I cannot deny that the thought has its appeal, but…”

No. No, this can’t be! Martin looks at Arthur, who looks crestfallen. He tangles his fingers with Douglas’. “Please, don’t do that.”

“I love you!” Arthur says.

Martin says, “I do, too.” He looks at Douglas. “We do.”

Martin kisses Douglas, because he wants him to know how much he loves him. First his cheek, while Arthur kisses Douglas’ lips and pulls him close. It’s so different in real life, there are arms and elbows everywhere, and they bump heads, then kiss again. It feels desperate. Martin kisses Douglas’ neck, and Arthur peppers kisses on his mouth. _Don’t leave us._

Douglas sighs. “You are under no obligation whatsoever to do this. _None_. Are you sure you want to include me in this?” 

“Yes!” Arthur says with conviction. 

“Yes,” Martin says, too. His heart is beating so fast. He absolutely means it, he _wants_ to do this. He has spent six whole months thinking about it. 

And Martin does know that love between three people is strange and unusual, but then meeting in prison is not usual, either. And they are already in love, so there’s no going back now. 

Douglas takes a moment, then says, “If memory serves… There _is_ a rather large bed in the guestroom.” 

They hurry through the hallway to the bedroom, and Martin can feel his breaths speed up, because this is it, he is _going to bed_ with them. But at the same time he’s not worried, either. They have talked so much, and they have had sex, and they have seen each other naked so many times. So it’s all new, but also not-new. 

Douglas pulls a plastic cover off the bed. Martin kisses Arthur, and they pull Douglas along and both kiss him until he groans. Martin ends up kneeling over Douglas and then rubbing himself against Douglas’ hip. And then Martin is kissing Arthur again. It’s all a haze of kisses and touches. 

Douglas is so nice to hold onto, Arthur is sturdy behind him, and Martin wants to just rub himself between them. He gets lost in kissing them instead. Arthur’s kisses are generous, and Douglas’ are more precise. Martin feels like he can kiss them for forever. But he also wants more. 

Martin opens the buttons of his shirt. He presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek, and then tries to focus on shoes and trousers and pants. Arthur pulls his jumper over his head. Douglas slowly undresses, too. 

And it’s so different, when they’re all naked. Martin’s skin feels hot and chilly at once. He touches the curve of Douglas’ belly and traces Arthur’s back, feeling the relief of scars under his fingertips. Martin lets out a little whimper as Douglas runs his fingers over his chest. 

Douglas kisses Arthur’s belly. He leans lower, and lower, and licks him. Arthur moans, “Oh, oh, yes!” 

Martin knows they’ve done that before. As he watches it, he does for a moment think of Frankie. But then he kisses Arthur, and the world feels all right again when he can feel Arthur’s smile against his lips. 

Arthur tries to talk into the kiss. “Oh, that’s…”

Martin holds him close, and he watches what Douglas is doing. Arthur really seems to love it. Arthur’s penis is lying onto his belly, and it rises up when Douglas comes closer and licks the head. Douglas takes Arthur’s erection into his mouth, and Arthur smiles widely. When Douglas uses his hand for a moment, Martin leans over and touches Douglas’ lips, then Arthur’s penis. 

Arthur says, “Douglas, you should do it to Martin, too. If he wants to?”

Martin remembers what it felt like having to do that. But it’s not the same - if Douglas didn’t like it, he would stop. 

Martin nods. 

Arthur pulls him in, and Martin laughs nervously. 

Douglas looks at him, then leans in and says, “Stop me if it’s not what you want.” 

And then Martin can feel the wet tickle of Douglas’ tongue. Martin is leaning against Arthur, who is so warm and sturdy under him. Then Martin can feel the _suck_ of Douglas’ mouth and he whimpers. “Aaaah!”

Douglas lets go and checks, “Good?” 

Martin isn’t sure. Yes, it’s very good, but he’s not, it’s… He turns his head and kisses Arthur again for a moment. Douglas uses his hand down there and Martin can feel goose bumps erupt everywhere. 

Martin tries to say, “It’s good, it _is_ , but…” His heart feels like it’s vibrating in his chest. 

Douglas lets go straight away. “Of course.” 

Martin lies down more behind Arthur and gives them some space to do things without him for a moment. They do, Douglas leans down to lick Arthur again, quick and wet. Then they switch, and Douglas lies down, Arthur leans up and pushes his penis to Douglas’. 

Martin can see their hips move. He watches them, and it’s nothing like Frankie was. They’re careful, and really sweet together. Tender. Douglas keeps on glancing at him to check whether Martin is all right, so he says, “I’m okay.” 

Arthur smiles at him, carefully leans over and puts a kiss to Martin’s nose. Martin laughs. 

Martin rubs his penis against Douglas’ side, and then he reaches out his hand and slowly jerks Arthur off. Douglas watches them. Martin likes looking at him like this – the heat in his eyes. 

Arthur says, “ _Martin!_ ” Martin moves his hand, Douglas’ hand reaches up to tug Arthur’s penis as well, and then he’s coming, all over them. 

Douglas hums happily. 

Arthur says, “That was _so_ good, thank you!”

Martin looks at the come all over Douglas’ belly. He feels brave, now. He did that. 

Arthur leans over and kisses Douglas lazily. 

Martin tries to kiss one of Douglas’ nipples. He licks it, and then sucks it between his lips. It tastes sharp and salty. Douglas leans back. “Ah.” 

Arthur kisses Douglas, but he doesn’t use his mouth on Douglas’ penis, either. Martin doesn’t ask why. He puts a hand there, and Douglas pulls him half over him. Martin manages to rub his penis against Douglas’ for a moment, but then he slips off, and Arthur laughs and pulls him close. 

Douglas looks at them with warm, shining eyes. “Try that again?”

Martin sits up, and then moves to rub himself over Douglas, just like Arthur did. It feels great, like little tugs of electricity running over him there. Arthur puts a hand over Douglas’ erection and teases just the tip on every stroke when Martin pulls back. 

Douglas says, “Ah, the two of you…”

Martin’s penis feels like it’s pulsing along with his heartbeat. Douglas twitches underneath him. He is going to come, Martin thinks - Douglas is going to come underneath him, with both of them touching him. 

Arthur kisses Douglas while rubbing his thumb back and forth over the tip of his Douglas’ penis. Martin is shaking. He feels so close to coming. 

Douglas groans. He twitches, and he starts coming onto Arthur’s hand. 

Martin’s thrusts are suddenly wet and slippery. He looks at them – Douglas lying there, flushed, and Arthur, with such a happy look in his eyes - then uses his hand. Martin strokes his penis like that, looking at them, feeling the shocks of orgasm come really close. 

Arthur says, “Oh, yes, Martin!” 

Martin comes. It sprays between his fingers, again and again, and he loves that they are watching him. It feels so good. So right. 

Martin rolls to the side, still shaking a little. Arthur puts his arms around him and kisses him. Martin kisses Douglas next, and Arthur leans his head onto Douglas’s chest and smiles. “Hmm.” 

They’re so sticky, but also warm, and Martin doesn’t move away. None of them do. 

“All right?” Douglas asks eventually.

“Yes, I…” Martin looks at Douglas. “ _Yes_.” 

It lingers for a moment. 

“We’re going to fly.” Martin had barely let that sink in before all of the other things happened. He feels stunned with happiness at it. 

“Yes, Martin, you’ll get to be a real-life pilot. And Douglas, you’ll get to show us all the places you have been, and see new ones, too. And I get to _be_ there!” Arthur sounds so excited.

Martin looks at Douglas. Douglas seems like he’s not sure how much he can do, or be. But he _wants_ to. 

Douglas quietly cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair, making Arthur smile, and Martin puts a hand over Douglas’. He’s not alone now. And that’s better than anything else.

Douglas offers, “Not too close to the sun, not too close to the sea?” 

Martin smiles. 

He knows what Douglas means. And, in a way, it really does feel like he has wings, now.

They all do.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
